NATURE AND CULTURE

Nature and Culture
BY HARVEY RICE

SECOND EDITION

BOSTON 1890
LEE AND SHEPARD Publishers
10 Milk St. next "The Old South Meeting House"
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM
New York 718 and 720 Broadway

Copyright, 1889,
By Harvey Rice.

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.

NOTE.

The first edition of "Nature and Culture" was published in 1875. The degree of favor with which the book was received has induced the author to publish a second edition, in which he has made a few changes and additions of such a character as to render the work, he trusts, still worthier of acceptance.

Cleveland, Ohio,
August 20, 1889.

CONTENTS.

NATURE AND HER LESSONS.

NATURE AND CULTURE.

NATURE AND HER LESSONS.

Nature declares herself in her works. What exists beyond her domain, if anything, becomes necessarily a matter of faith or imagination; and yet the origin of the material universe presents a problem which neither the vagaries of the ancients nor the speculations of the moderns have been able to solve in a satisfactory manner.

In modern methods of logic, we reason from cause to effect, from the known to the unknown; but in attempting to penetrate the region of the unknown, we are often left without a reliable guide. Analogy may aid, but cannot assure us. The powers of the human mind, if not infinite, may admit of infinite culture. What is supposed to be "unknowable" may therefore become known. However this may be, there is no divine injunction which prescribes a limit to human possibilities.

Whatever we may think or believe, the volume of Nature contains nothing but truth; it is a divine record which is as inexhaustible in its wealth of knowledge as it is conclusive in its logic. Men of science, in attempting to read this unerring record, have advanced many plausible theories in relation to the processes by which the earth acquired its embodiment, and took its place among the golden orbs of heaven.

There are reasons for believing that matter has always existed in some form or other, and that it is infinite in extent as well as in duration. Nor need we hesitate to infer, from the knowledge we have of the various forms in which matter exists, that what is true of the earth in its processes of development is equally true of every other planet.

Whether the earth in its origin was a fragment thrown off from some exploded planet which had filled the measure of its destiny, or whether it arose from the gradual accretion of elementary substances diffused in infinite space, are questions which cannot be satisfactorily answered. Either method is not only plausible, but consistent with the known laws and operations of Nature.

It seems quite probable that those erratic bodies known as comets are but incipient planets, which continue, as they revolve in their mystical flight, to accumulate gaseous matter until they have acquired and condensed a sufficient amount to become orbs, or worlds; when, by the influence of physical forces, they take their places in some one or other of the existing planetary systems. It is thus perhaps that the law of development constructs a world with as much ease as it constructs a grain of sand; nor can we doubt that the processes of aggregation and dissolution are made reciprocal in their relations, and perpetual in their action.

In a philosophical sense, "life" and "death" are but conventional terms, meaning nothing more than a change of matter from one form of existence to another. Whatever changes may take place, matter can neither be increased nor diminished. Infinite space, being an immateriality, could never have been created and cannot therefore be limited or annihilated. In all probability it still is, and always has been, filled with the elements of matter,—too subtile, perhaps, to be perceived, yet destined in the course of eternal ages to be wrought and re-wrought into infinite varieties of corporeal existences, mineral, vegetal, and animal, ever progressing from the imperfect to the perfect. Thus Nature teaches us the lesson that in perfection dwells the central Life, the quickening power of the universe.

In accordance with this view, we may regard every particle of matter in the universe as the germ of a world. And yet what are called original elements may be such, or may not. Supposed monads, or simple unities, if they exist at all, may be capable of analysis by the application of physical agencies or forces as yet unknown to science. Though science has disclosed much that is wonderful in the mechanism of Nature, there still lies before us an infinite unknown. Whether ultimately the human mind will become so enlarged and extended in its powers as to comprehend the infinite, admits of no positive assurance; yet in the unrevealed design of the great future, such may be the result.

It is only in modern times that science has taken the advanced step, and led philosophy into the beautiful avenues of Nature, where, amid the infinite, she gazes at the universe, listens to the music of the spheres, and beholds the golden wealth of the infinite displayed on every side. It is thus that philosophy has become inspired with a desire to account for everything, and finds that Nature has written her own history in the hills and in the rocks, in the depths of the sea, and in the stars of heaven, leaving nothing for man to do except to read the record, and accept its truthful teachings. In fact, the material universe may be regarded as an outspoken revelation of the infinite.

The elementary substances which compose the earth and its atmosphere are essentially the same, and are not numerous, so far as ascertained. The leading vital principle is oxygen, which constitutes at least one half of all known matter. The earth's crust is estimated to be about fifty miles thick. This estimate is based on the fact that in penetrating the earth, the heat uniformly increases at a rate which would fuse all mineral substances at that depth.

Hence, the interior of the earth is believed to be a region of molten substances, fiery billows that roll impatient of restraint, and escape here and there in the form of volcanic eruptions. Volcanoes are, therefore, but the outposts of gigantic central forces, and earthquakes but the spasmodic trials of their strength. It would seem, go where we will, that "fiery billows" literally roll beneath our feet. What Nature's ultimate designs are, it is impossible to predict. But it is pretty certain that her internal fires are working out some mystical problem. A scientific German has recently ascertained that the surface of the earth is gradually becoming hotter, and that in five hundred millions of years it will attain to such a degree of heat as to destroy human life. And yet there are other scientists equally wise, perhaps, who assert that the earth's crust is gradually cooling and contracting, and therefore radiating less heat, the final result of which will be the destruction of all life and a return of the glacial period.

Geological science, as well as revelation, impresses us with the belief that in the beginning "the earth was without form, and void,"—a chaos of atoms which were gathered, comet-like, from infinite space, and made to revolve in a globular mass by physical forces, until it became, by the condensation of its vapory atmosphere, submerged in a flood of dark and interminable waters. In consequence of the action of the waters on mineral substances, vast deposits of sediment accumulated, which, with the aid of pressure and chemical heat, gradually hardened into rocks, strata upon strata, like solid masonry, and varying in thickness from the fraction of a mile to thirty miles or more. Nature seems to have adopted this method of construction as a prerequisite to the severance of the land from the waters. In effecting this object, the explosive forces, long confined in the earth's interior, are supposed to have burst asunder the walls of their prison-house, suddenly upheaving continents and mountains from the depths of a dismal and shoreless ocean. It was then that the "dry land" made its first appearance, and was baptized in the pure sunlight of heaven.

The virgin soil of the earth, when thus exposed to the genial influence of the sun, soon produced vegetal life, and vegetal life animal life,—the one the food of the other. Thus Nature ever provides for her guests in advance of their reception. Yet in her formative processes she "makes haste slowly," though she may sometimes leap to conclusions. Her work never ceases. A million of years is to her as one day, and one day as a million of years. Hence everything has its age, and is lost in the ages. Of this fact we have reliable evidence in the strata of the rocks, and in the limited field of our own observation. There can be no doubt the earth has been many times baptized in fire and water, and its crust broken into fragments and thrown into strange angles and relations. These grand upheavals have occurred at dates vastly remote from each other, and are recognized by science as great geological periods.

The Ages of Nature, so far as relates to the earth, may be classed briefly as: the primary, or reign of fishes; the secondary, or reign of reptiles; the tertiary, or reign of mammals; and the modern, or reign of man. Each of these ages constitutes a grand chapter in the earth's history, which is easily read and understood by the masters of geological science. The same agencies which were employed in constructing the earth's crust are still employed in reconstructing it. In fact, the work of creation is still going on as in the beginning, if beginning there ever was in Nature's material processes. We see this illustrated in the changes which are produced on the earth's surface in our own time by the action of the rain, the wind, the frost, the flood, the glacier, the volcano, and the earthquake.

It is by these agencies that the hills and the mountains are graded down, and the detritus deposited in the valleys and in the sea; thus are valleys enriched and broadened, vast plains and deltas created, and continents enlarged. When the present hills and mountains have been reduced to plains, and the fertility of the soil exhausted, it is quite probable that another grand upheaval of the earth's foundations will occur,—the birth-power by which new hills and mountains are lifted up, and continents changed to ocean-beds, and ocean-beds to continents. It is these mighty changes and exchanges that prepare the way, and fit the earth for the production of higher orders of plants and animals, and perhaps a higher order of man.

In the course of unknown ages, Nature has enriched and extended the valley of the Nile hundreds of miles into the sea, by transporting thither the pulverized wealth of the Abyssinian mountains. Thus fertilized, Egypt has for many thousands of years sustained a dense population. Very justly has she been called not only the cradle of mankind, but the granary of the world. In like manner, the Ganges transports from the interior of India a sufficient amount of sediment annually to cover a township five miles square to the depth of ten feet, and by this means has extended the land hundreds of miles into the ocean. The Hoang-Ho, a river of China, by its deposits of alluvium in the sea has added an entire province to that country, comprising an area of ninety-six thousand square miles. Indeed, all rivers are tributaries to the sea, and all seas tributaries to the rivers. This exchange is effected mainly by the rains and the snows, the exhalations and the waterspouts. The clouds are but common carriers; this commerce is therefore a matter of mutual interest, and grows out of the positive necessities of sea and land. Though the elements appear to move in conflict, they really move in perfect harmony, and bring order out of seeming confusion.

In executing a gigantic work, no river has excelled the Mississippi. This "Father of Waters" has distinctly indicated in the record of his career the prehistorical age of the world, and the equally prehistorical advent of man. In his "march to the sea" he has left enduring landmarks, and with his battle-axe notched centuries long lost in the mighty past. The land which this majestic river has formed, by depositing sediment in the Gulf of Mexico, comprises an area of thirty thousand square miles. This deposit or delta has a depth exceeding one thousand feet; and the period required for its accumulation has been estimated by Mr. Lyell, the renowned geologist, at one hundred thousand years.

This estimate only embraces the deposits since the river ran in its present channel. The bluffs along the river rise in many places two hundred and fifty feet, and contain shells, with the remains of the mastodon, elephant, tapir, megalonyx, and other huge animals. It is evident that these bluffs must have belonged to an ancient plain or valley long anterior to the present level. In several sections of the valley as it now exists, excavations have been made deeper than the Gulf of Mexico, and successive growths of cypress-timber found, to the number of four or five distinct growths, the lowest lying at the depth of six hundred feet. Some of these trees are ten feet in diameter, and have from five to six thousand annual rings of growth.

As the valley of the river from age to age grew in elevation by deposits of sediment, a new growth of cypress was produced, and is now supervened by the live-oak plain, so called, which has had an existence, as estimated by the annual rings of the oaks, of fourteen thousand years.

In excavating for gas-works at New Orleans, a human skull was found beneath the roots of a cypress belonging to the fourth-forest level, in a good state of preservation, while the other bones of the skeleton crumbled to dust on exposure to the air. The type of the cranium was that of the aboriginal American. Now, if we take the period required to form the live-oak level, and add it to the time required to produce the next three subterranean growths of cypress, which overlie the fourth growth, in which the cranium was found, it clearly proves that the human race existed in the great valley of the Mississippi more than fifty-seven thousand years ago.

Not only in the valley of the Mississippi have fossil remains of man and animals been discovered at depths and in formations that prove their remote antiquity, but in many other parts of the world. Not many years ago, a human skull was found in Brazil, embedded in a sandstone rock overgrown with lofty trees. There is still preserved, in the museum at Quebec, a human skull which was excavated from the solid schist-rock on which the citadel now stands. Human skeletons have also been found in the island of Guadeloupe, embedded in a rock said to be as hard as the finest statuary marble. Even so recently as the year 1868, while sinking a well at the Antelope station, on the Union Pacific Railroad, the workmen penetrated a rock six feet thick, and at eighty feet below the rock discovered a human skeleton in such a state of preservation as to be readily recognized as such.

In another instance it is said that a human skull was discovered in Calaveras County, Cal., at the bottom of a shaft which had been sunk one hundred and thirty feet below the surface. It was found deposited in a bed of gravel with other organic remains, and beneath the eighth distinct geological layer of earth and gravel, where it must have lain, according to the estimate of Professor Whitney, the geologist, for a period of at least one hundred thousand years. This remote antiquity of man is also confirmed by discoveries in every part of the world of the fossil remains of domestic animals as well as of man, including implements of human invention, such as flint arrow-heads, stone axes, war-weapons, cooking-utensils, in localities which preclude the idea of their belonging to an age that has a written history.

It is not unfrequent that fossil remains of human bones and of animals are found embedded in the coral-reef limestone of Florida. In fact, says Professor Agassiz, the whole peninsula of Florida has been formed by successive growths of coral reefs and shells; he estimates the formation of the southern half of the peninsula as occupying a period of one hundred and thirty-five thousand years. The sea contains ingredients which feed innumerable animalcula, especially the polypes, or coral-builders, which have the power of secreting calcareous matter. These myriads of noiseless architects are ever busy in building for themselves fairy temples in the depths of the ocean, of the most delicate and beautiful workmanship, and in erecting pyramids and islands, and in extending continents.

In the mean time there are other agencies of a very different character continually at work, modifying the earth's surface, and preparing it for sustaining a still higher order of vegetal and animal life. As a result of these agencies, especially the volcanic, it often happens that serious calamities befall the human family. In the course of a century, not less than two thousand volcanic eruptions occur on the globe, equal to twenty a year, or one every eighteen days. The whole number of volcanoes known to be active at the present time exceeds three hundred; and doubtless many times that number have long since become extinct.

In Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, there are extensive tracts or belts of country which are volcanic in their character; and especially is this true of the entire American-Pacific coast, and the ocean-bed adjoining it. Often have long lines of this coast been elevated or depressed many feet, as if the whole continent were afloat, and tossing like a ship on a stormy sea. Neither in the past, nor in the present, has the earth seemed to rest on a sure foundation. Even in apparent security there is no positive safety.

Nature must and will exercise her sterner as well as her milder powers. In achieving gigantic works, she employs gigantic powers. Her forces are her own; and when she directs them to execute her mandates, she is promptly obeyed. She models and remodels the earth's exterior and interior at pleasure, but never without a beneficent design. Earthquakes break up the earth's crust. Internal fires melt it. Exploding gases lift it. Gravitation moulds it. The atmosphere cools it. The sun and the rain clothe it with verdure; and flowers crown it with beauty. In this way the earth's surface seems to have been prepared for the advent of man, and its interior supplied with coal-fields and reservoirs of oil and gas for his use.

Though Nature has made for man ample provision, she requires him not only to help himself, but to take care of himself. Nor does she give him formal notice to keep out of harm's way when she wishes to break up the earth's crust and re-cast it, but proceeds at once. She may sink or elevate a continent at a blow, or she may do it by slow degrees.

The earliest writers give us accounts of terrific earthquakes. Thucydides alludes to volcanic eruptions which occurred five hundred years before the Christian era. In the vicinity of volcanic mountains, it has happened that city after city, in the course of ages, has been engulfed, one upon another, in molten lava, or cinders, leaving no record behind them of their unhappy fate. Herculaneum lies buried a hundred feet deep beneath the modern city of Portici; and beneath Herculaneum, a city still more ancient has been discovered, whose name and history are entirely unknown. How many other cities lie buried at the foot of the old fire-crowned monarch of Italy, no one can tell; but doubtless there are several of them. What induced people to occupy a locality so perilous, it is difficult to say, unless it was the superior fertility of a volcanic soil.

No part of the world is exempt from sudden calamities of a similar character. The earthquake experienced by the city of Antioch in Syria, in the year 626, destroyed two hundred and fifty thousand people. The great eruption of Mount Etna, in 1669, overflowed fourteen towns, containing from three to four thousand inhabitants each. The stream of lava which issued from the mountain was half a mile wide and forty feet deep, and swept everything before it, until lost in the sea. The earthquake at Lisbon, in 1775, killed sixty thousand persons in six minutes; the shock was felt in Switzerland, in Scotland, in Massachusetts, and on the shore of Lake Ontario. In 1783, a large river in Iceland was sunk into the earth by volcanic action, and entirely obliterated. In 1792, an earthquake in the island of Java sunk a tract of land fifteen miles long and six miles wide, carrying down with it forty small villages. In our own country and in our own neighborhood, in 1811, several islands in the Mississippi River, near New Madrid, were sunk by an earthquake, and the course of the river driven back eighteen miles, causing it to overflow the adjacent lands; about half the county of New Madrid, as well as the village, was submerged. Several new lakes were created, one of which was sixty miles long and several miles wide. The earth's surface rose in undulations like the billows of the sea, and with terrific utterances, opened yawning chasms, from which vast columns of sand and water, and a substance resembling coke, were thrown out. The whole face of the country in that region was materially changed. And, what is a little singular, one of the lakes thus created by the earthquake extended to the river at a point nearly opposite the famous Island No. 10, thus affording a natural canal by which the Union forces in the late civil war approached and took the island.

It is not improbable that the entire chain of our great northwestern lakes, from Ontario to Superior, were created by the volcanic collapse of a mountain range that once occupied the same localities. Of this fact there are plausible, if not irresistible, evidences to be seen in the volcanic character of the rocks at various points along the entire coast. Nor can it be very well doubted that subsequent volcanic action has elevated much of the coast into several corresponding ridges, from one to two miles apart, which distinctly mark the successive boundaries of these inland seas.

Nature removes mountains, or creates them, at pleasure. She also makes and unmakes lakes and rivers, to say nothing of oceans and continents. In California, and doubtless in other parts of the world, there are as many dead as living rivers. The miners of California have already discovered the old channels of a dozen or more dead rivers, as they call them, encased and sealed up in the very heart of the mountain ranges, and extending in some instances hundreds of miles in the general direction of the ranges, and leaping from mountain to mountain at a common level or grade. These ancient channels are filled with sand, gravel, and small bowlders, evidently worn and polished by long attrition. Some of the channels are a mile wide, or more, and from ten to one hundred feet deep. In the angles or eddies, the sands are found to be exceedingly rich in gold, sometimes yielding fifty dollars or more to the cubic yard. It is estimated that over five hundred millions of dollars have already been taken from the sands of these dead rivers, and that they are now yielding at least ten millions a year. It is evident that these dead rivers must have been living rivers long before the volcanic era arrived, which elevated the ancient valleys into mountain ranges, and depressed the ancient mountain ranges into valleys.

In the South-American earthquake of August, 1868, thirty thousand lives were lost, several cities entirely obliterated, and three hundred millions of dollars' worth of property destroyed. A tidal wave, more than forty feet deep, swept over the land and deposited, high and dry, and beyond recovery, several first-class ships; the effect of this earthquake was felt along the coast for a distance of six to seven thousand miles. In October of the same year, the city of San Francisco was visited by an earthquake, which shattered many buildings, and destroyed several lives. It is supposed that this was but a prolongation of the South-American earthquake.

In some parts of California and South America, thunder and lightning seldom occur, while earthquakes are frequent; in regions like these, earthquakes would seem to be a substitute for thunder and lightning. In all probability both are but electrical phenomena, differing only in the fact that the one is an earthquake, the other a skyquake. It is in plains and valleys that earthquakes prove the most destructive. Doubtless the solid material composing the mountain ranges affords a better conductor of electricity than the alluvial soil of the plains and the valleys; hence, while the one serves as a lightning-rod, the other becomes the battleground of conflicting elements. It may be that electrical forces are generated in the earth's interior, as well as in the atmosphere, and that the earthquake is but the shock produced by the restoration of an equilibrium. The earth and the atmosphere are essentially the same in their elements, and are ever contributing of their substance to the requisitions of each other.

When physical science shall be so far advanced as to explain the true causes of the earthquake, if it does not make man "master of the situation," it will doubtless place in his hands the power of avoiding, to some extent at least, the calamities which now so often befall life and property.

There can be no doubt that the earth is a physical necessity not yet fully developed; only about one-fourth part of its surface is land, the remainder water. Nearly three times more land lies north of the equator than south of it. Why this should be so, is not quite clear. In the course of the earth's future development, however, it is not improbable that additional continents and islands will appear, and the waters subside into narrower and deeper channels, thus giving to man, and to land-life generally, a wider domain. And yet the present seas were not made in vain, but have always abounded with plant-life and animal-life, though of an inferior order as compared with land-life. Life in itself is infinite, and appears in infinite varieties both on land and in the sea. Whether man needs more land for his use and future development, is difficult to say. At any rate, everything that exists has its mutual relations, and adapts itself to the ultimate aim of Nature,—the perfection of man.

In the Western Hemisphere, the mountains take the general direction of north and south; in the Eastern, the general direction of east and west. In the one hemisphere, the ranges essentially accord with the lines of longitude; in the other, with the lines of latitude. These mountain ranges are but continental watersheds, from which flows the elemental wealth that enriches the plains and the valleys. The rivers and their tributaries are the commercial agents. The rain and the frost are the miners whose labors will never cease until the mountains are levelled. The mountains also attract and guide the storms and modify their force, condense the mists, the raindrop, and the dewdrop, and thus aid in refreshing the valleys in connection with the heat of the sunbeams. In this way the seasons, as well as the elements of the soil, are so modified and vitalized as to give to man seedtime and harvest, and needful food to every "living and creeping thing."

In addition to the world of life that is visible, there is a world of life that is invisible,—a microscopic realm of animalcula, which "live and move and have their being" in every element of life, and in every life, and yet are so minute as to be imperceptible to the naked eye. These invisibles, or infusoria, abound everywhere and in everything. They pervade the sea, the land, the air. They swarm in every drop of water, and revel in every morsel of food. We can neither eat nor drink without infringing on their domain and consigning myriads of them, perhaps, to an unprovoked destruction. They are almost as various in grade, size, and shape, as they are numerous. Some are hideous, while others are comely. They feed on each other, the superior on the inferior, and are ever struggling for life and for the mastery. They engage in the "battle of life" to sustain life, and hold to the doctrine that "to the victors belong the spoils." It is an ascertained fact that a speck of potato-rot, the size of a pin-head, contains hundreds of these little ferocious animals, fighting and devouring each other without mercy and without cessation.

What seems still more surprising is that they probably have a perfect organization,—heart, lungs, stomach, circulation of blood, and are endowed, perhaps, with all the five senses. Infinite numbers of them, it is supposed, exist in so minute a form that no microscope, however great its power, can detect them. Nor need we doubt that even these living invisibles are beset with parasites vastly minuter than themselves, which feed and breed on their surfaces. In the very blood-circulation of the minutest, it is not improbable that other infusoria, still more minute, swim and prey upon each other. The uses for which this invisible world of life were created, though doubtless for a wise purpose, cannot be comprehended. Yet it is evident that every living thing, however minute, has a destiny of some sort, ever progressing, it may be, from a lower to a higher sphere,—from the material to the spiritual, from the finite to the infinite.

"All are but parts of one stupendous whole,

Whose body Nature is, and God the soul."

The atmosphere, supposed to extend sixty miles in height, surrounds the earth like an invisible ocean, and gives to it almost entirely its life-material. In fact, the atmosphere is the great reservoir of the vital elements, from which is derived the principal part, if not all, the material, solid or liquid, which enters into the composition of both plant and animal, whether it be a blade of grass, a leaf, or a tree; an insect, a fish, or a man. It is true, however, that animal-life is more directly the outgrowth of plant-life; and yet the vital forces of both are derived from the air, and return to the air by solar agencies. It is quite certain that all matter, as seen embodied in various forms, consists entirely of certain gases condensed or solidified by chemical laws. The atmosphere itself, and probably infinite space, are filled with matter in the gaseous form, or in some unknown form, destined to be condensed, dissolved, and recondensed in a series of changes as continuous as the infinite ages.

In this sense, not only the earth, but every other planet, contains within itself the seeds of its own dissolution. Yet matter, whatever its form, is still indestructible, and will forever retain its vital forces. It would seem that life is the soul of matter, and that electricity is the soul of life,—immaterial, it may be, and if so, then immortal. Where the material ends, or where the spiritual begins, it is impossible to say. We know that we are endowed with the five senses at birth. We also know that they are the media through which we receive all the impressions and perceptions of our environment; it is from their report that we learn what is agreeable or disagreeable to our physical needs. We choose the agreeable, and reject the disagreeable. Here reason begins, and pronounces judgment. Memory records facts and conclusions. The physical and the mental grow in strength from infancy to manhood; they are a living unit. The one is real, and the other ideal. Of spirit or soul we know nothing, nor can we prove their existence, unless we accept the proofs as furnished by revelation. It is certain, however, that our moral character survives us and continues to have an influence in the world for good or for evil "according to the deeds done in the body." This fact is something which we can comprehend as constituting the ideal of our spiritual existence. Nor need we doubt that in discharging our duties to our fellow-men, we discharge our duties to God.

Everywhere about us, and especially in atmospheric phenomena, we see an epitome of Nature's processes and marvellous formative power. Not a snowflake falls to the ground that does not bring with it a crystallization of the most beautiful specimens of artistic embroidery, far excelling the finest needle-work ever wrought by woman's hand. The same is true of the silver frostwork traced on the window-pane by the delicate touch of invisible fingers. In truth, every gem that glitters in the mine, every flower of the field, and every star in the sky, is but a crystallized expression of the beautiful, blended with a silent love that is pure and heartfelt, as if akin to us. In reality they are our kindred, and we are their kindred.

Nature seems to delight in creating the wonderful as well as the beautiful, and often combines both in the same exhibition. Hence she entertains us occasionally with a magnificent display of fireworks, known as Northern Lights; or with an apparent shower of falling stars; or with the sudden descent of an aërolite, all ablaze, as if dropped from the fiery forge of the sun; or with a brilliant comet, which with its long and glittering trail sweeps in ladylike style the star-dust from the pavement of the sky. These singular occurrences, though sometimes regarded as ominous, are but a part of Nature's systematic operations. They cannot with any foundation in truth be attributed to accident; for it is impossible that accidents should happen in the workshops of Nature, or in the administration of her government.

How the various meteors are actually formed, or whence they come, is a mystery which has induced much speculation among scientific men. Some say they are volcanic fragments thrown from the moon, or from some distant planet, or perhaps from a crater of the sun; while others, with more reason, suppose that they are generated in space, or in the earth's atmosphere, and are nothing more than condensed gases which constitute the elements of solid matter, and which become in some instances so hardened by chemical action as to assume the solidity of stone or iron.

And hence it often happens that the latter class of these erratic strangers fall from the sky to the earth with a terrific explosion. In ancient times their appearance was regarded as portentous of national or individual calamities. The Chinese have records of meteoric showers, and the fall of aërolites, which occurred more than six hundred and forty years before the Christian era. The Greeks and Romans observed and recorded similar phenomena. Between the years 903 and 1833, not less than nineteen periodical star-showers have been recorded. The regular period of their occurrence is once in every thirty-three years, or thereabout, and usually about the middle of November. But what are called sporadic meteors, or shooting-stars, are of frequent occurrence, and may be seen almost every evening in the year.

The most brilliant meteoric shower on record is that of 1833, when meteors fell at the rate of two hundred and forty thousand per hour, creating the impression that all the stars of heaven had been unsphered, and were falling like a sheet of fire to the earth, and threatening a universal conflagration. Occurring as it did at midnight, and continuing for two or more hours, thousands of people, who witnessed the scene with fear and trembling, supposed the day of judgment had come. In just thirty-three years after this, Nov. 14, 1866, occurred another periodical shower of a similar character, which, though less brilliant, was seen on a more extended scale in Europe than in the United States. Why this apparent storm of fire should occur every thirty-three years, is a mystery which science has not yet been able to explain. It may be a part of the machinery of our planetary system, and is perhaps as regular in its revolutions as the planets; or it may be a method of dissipating an over-accumulation in the earth's atmosphere, or in infinite space, of inflammable gaseous matter, which thus ignites spontaneously, and presents to the eye the appearance of burning sparks flying off, as it were, from the broad anvil and ponderous sledge employed in the great workshop of Nature. Be this as it may, meteoric showers, so far as known, have always proved harmless in their results.

But the aërolite assumes a more formidable character. In outline it is a globular mass heated to intensity, and in its approach comes with a hissing sound, and usually explodes in the atmosphere or when it strikes the earth. Its fragments show that it is a solid body, composed mostly of a ferruginous material. The illumination it creates in its passage through the atmosphere is sometimes seen at the distance of five or six hundred miles. Erratic masses of this kind have been known to fall in all ages and in all countries, and are of frequent occurrence.

So recent as the year 1867, an aërolite of large dimensions fell in Tennessee, penetrating a hillside of rocky formation to the depth of twenty feet. It was seen at a great distance, and came hissing on its way like a planet on fire, and when it struck the earth, produced a shock like that of an earthquake. So intensely heated was it, that for three days after it fell it generated and sent up from the moist earth a dense column of steam, which rose and floated away like a cloud in the sky. When excavated, its mass was found to be composed principally of iron, and measured seven feet from apex to base, and ten feet in circumference. Fragments of it have been preserved, and may be seen at Washington, and in several collections of minerals belonging to scientific individuals. But where did it come from? Did it come from the sun, the moon, the earth, or from some exploded planet? or was it generated in the atmosphere? Though the question has not been satisfactorily answered, there are plausible reasons for believing that aërolites, and meteors generally, are the spontaneous production of atmospherical agencies. Physical forces are at work all over the earth, charging the atmosphere with the identical materials that compose the meteoric stone, or aërolite. Volcanoes emit their gases, and hurl with terrific force burning fragments of rock into the depths of the sky. The tornado, or land-spout, takes up in its grasp sand, with other solid material, and rotates it with such violence as to produce fusion of the mass, giving it a globular form and hurling it to an invisible height, and then leaving it to gravitate brilliantly and rapidly until it reaches the earth. This theory is confirmed by many facts, and especially by the occurrence of a land-spout near the village of Ossonval in France, where, on the 6th of July, 1822, some broken clouds, coming from different directions, and collecting over the sandy plain, formed a single cloud, which covered the heavens, when an elongated nether portion of it descended, presenting its vortex downward, and having its base in the cloud. It then became violent in its revolutions, and being driven by the wind, overturned buildings, uprooted trees, twirling them in the air with liberal quantities of sand and water, which it had scooped up in its course, when from its centre, amid sulphurous vapors, globes of fire were seen to issue, as if projected from an engine of terrific power, attended with a sound like that of heavy cannon discharged in the distance. Throughout its entire course it left the fearful traces of its devastation. The globes of fire which were projected from its centre, it may well be supposed, possessed all the characteristics of veritable aërolites, and were thus manufactured by electrical heat and fusion out of the earth-material lifted from the plain.

Not long since, there fell near Romney, Ind., an aërolite in a liquid, or molten state, which flew into fragments the moment it struck the earth's surface. The spot where it fell was deeply indented and scorched; and the material of which it was composed was found scattered about in the vicinity, having the appearance of cinders, yet moulded into the form of small spherical bodies varying in size from a buckshot to that of a cannon-ball. It is somewhat remarkable that in subjecting fractured portions of the cinders to intense heat, no perceptible odor was emitted, neither was the color nor weight changed. The fact that these cinders descended in spherical bodies would seem to indicate that the parent mass approached the earth in a state of fusion, projecting from its surface, as it revolved, detached fragments, which, taking a rotatory impulse, became its attendant satellites in accordance with planetary laws.

Among many other aërolites that have fallen in different parts of our country, one of considerable magnitude was seen to fall near Concord, Muskingum County, Ohio, on the 1st of May, 1860; it approached the earth with a brilliancy as vivid as the sun, and exploded when it struck. Several fragments of it were excavated while quite hot, one of which, weighing eleven pounds, has been deposited in the Historical Rooms at Cleveland. It is composed of ferruginous matter, and seems almost as heavy as pure iron.

It is impossible for us to comprehend, from the standpoint we occupy in this life, our real relations either to the past or to the present, much less to the future. Earth has her manifold wonders, yet they are but few when compared with the infinite wonders of the heavens. Vast as our solar system truly is, it may still be regarded as but a chandelier suspended in the entrance-hall of Nature's great temple. When we consider that infinite space has neither centre nor circumference, and that it is filled with stars, and that every star is a world inhabited like our own, and that there are still infinite numbers of stars whose light, though travelling at the rate of one hundred and eighty-five thousand miles a second ever since the dawn of creation, has not yet reached the earth, we are lost,—lost in wonder and amazement, lost in thought, still wanting a thought broad enough and strong enough to grasp the infinite. Who is there that would not, if he could, explore the untrodden yet brilliant domains of infinite space,—the garden of God, ever blossoming with golden flowers,—and thus acquire for himself divine wisdom? If we would become as gods, and walk with God, we must learn to partake the food, and drink the beverage, of the gods.

In physical science there is much that has a direct influence on the growth and vigor of moral science. In fact, Nature does much more for the welfare and education of man than he does for himself. The mountains elevate his thoughts, and teach him moral sublimity. The vast ocean, apparently shoreless, suggests to him the idea of eternity and a future life. The earthquake, the hurricane, and the lightning inspire him with a belief in the existence of a supreme Power, a divine Governor of the universe. Thus impressed with a sense of his own weakness and dependence, man naturally implores protection, and trusts in the beneficence and in the clemency of the great Invisible. Hence his faith, his hope, his aspirations. In this way was laid the primitive foundation of his creed and religious tendencies. And yet his weakest passion would seem to be his strongest,—a desire not only to perpetuate himself beyond this life, but to acquire superhuman power. It is for this that he struggles, erects altars, and solicits aid from visionary as well as from divine sources.

Whether the perfection of mankind be the end and aim of Nature, need not be questioned. It is evident that she regards man as a favorite, and for this reason solicits him to accept the lessons of wisdom which are ever falling from her lips. In the plenitude of her love she attempts to lead him upward into a broader and a holier sphere. If man was able to trace his descent and ascertain his origin, do you think he would find it in the ape, as Darwin affirms, or in the dust of the earth? Revelation replies, In the dust; and a sound philosophy confirms the fact.

Nature never stultifies herself, nor does she develop a new species of animal or plant from an existing species, but doubtless encourages "natural selection" in the line of each distinct species, and by so doing promotes progress in her grand scheme of attaining perfection; nor can it be doubted that from new conditions a new species may appear. In fact, every living thing is born of its appropriate conditions, and will continue to propagate its kind so long as its appropriate conditions exist. When conditions change, results change. In this way a new species of plant or animal may be, and perhaps often is, generated. The process is simply one of change in the relation of the requisite life-elements,—a process which results from the unceasing operation of a great natural law. In Nature there is nothing constant but change.

Life, in all its varieties, whether vegetal or animal, has a rudimental origin, traceable perhaps to a minute egg, cell, or spore, call it what you will, from which is evolved in due time a perfect plant or animal. But if asked whence is derived the egg, cell, or spore, we can only reply that they have their origin in certain primitive life-elements, which are brought into contact in a way so subtile as to elude the investigations of science. This life-law, whatever it may be, acts in reference to kind, and produces its kind. Nearly all forms of life have resemblances; and though we accept the doctrine of evolution, it does not follow that man was developed from an ape, or the bird from a flying-fish.

Everything that lives, whether plant or animal, has its leading characteristics. Nearly all plants, as well as animals, evince a degree of intelligence in their choice of nutriment and in their methods of obtaining it. Some plants, like animals, shrink at the touch; while others have the power of locomotion. Some seek the sunlight; while others prefer the shade. Some imprison and appropriate insects as food; while others extend themselves in this or that direction in search of favorite companionship. It is doubtless true that plants, as well as animals, however low their grade, have sensation, perhaps consciousness, and if so, a ray of reason. It would seem that mind is but an outgrowth of matter, and that every living thing has a degree of intelligence. Indeed, every particle of matter, organic or inorganic, has motive power, and is therefore endowed with a living principle, however sluggish or inert it may appear. An intelligent vitality seems to pervade the entire material of the universe. Hence it has been said with some degree of plausibility that "matter thinks." However this may be, it is certain that its motive power acts in reference to adapting means to ends, and is therefore controlled by reason,—a reason that is infinitely superior to human reason. In other words, all matter is the subject of law. The one is manifestly the condition of the other. The law cannot exist without the matter, nor can the matter exist without the law. Both are therefore co-existent, and doubtless co-eternal.

Nature is ever active in working "wonders in the heavens and in the earth." Her domain includes both. In the beam of every star she sends us a messenger revealing the fact that the stars are constructed of the same materials as the earth. In like manner we have assurance that the same is true of the nebulous masses, which seem to float, like continents, in infinite space, awaiting the slow processes which are destined to mould them into golden orbs. And thus from the depths of the infinite comes world after world, system after system, ever sweeping onward in the "eternal dances of the sky," until lost in the infinite. And thus it is that the work of creation has neither beginning nor ending, but is ever progressing in its subtile methods of combining, dissolving, and recombining the entire matter of the universe. Everything, whether orb or atom, moves in a circle, because there is a divinity that stirs within it.

Philosophize as we may, it is certain that we are surrounded by the infinite, and are of the infinite. All that is terrestrial in us, all individualities, are evanescent, passing from one form into another. Nothing remains identical. Yet in her experiments, Nature never fails of success. In dissolving pearls, she creates others of higher value; in extinguishing stars, she lights up others of greater brilliancy and magnitude. And yet nothing becomes extinct; elements never die. Every plant and every animal is but the fruitage of the inherent life that pervades the material world.

In some form or other we always have existed and always will exist. It has been well said that man in his nature is "half dust and half deity." His life does not begin with his birth, nor does it end with his death; he is immortal. And so is everything, whether animate or inanimate, immortal. Even death survives itself. Nor is there a particle of matter in the universe that has not lived and breathed; nor is there a drop of water in the ocean that has not slaked the thirst of some living thing. Every star that glitters in the fathomless depths of space swarms with life, and every life achieves its aim. In a word, everything is infinite, and subserves an infinite purpose. We need neither go nor come to reach heaven. It is here; it is everywhere,—not a place, but a state. It is only the moral atmosphere of our social and individual life that requires purification,—a work that must begin in the head and in the heart in order to be effective. When this purification has been achieved, then with our earth-life will come moral elevation, and with moral elevation, harmony with heaven. The God of Nature is the God in Nature, who not only reveals himself in her lessons, but takes us by the hand, and with the love and patience of a parent leads us onward and upward—

"Along the line of limitless desires."

EDUCATION OF THE MASSES.

EDUCATION OF THE MASSES.

It is the welfare of society, rather than that of the individual, which is sought to be promoted by a system of popular education. Every part of the social fabric should be fitted to its place, and go into place like the materials in Solomon's temple, without the sound of the hammer; yet a refined civilization cannot be attained without first securing a liberal mental culture of the masses.

Nature, as if inspired by a divine instinct, is ever engaged in refining her materials. The laws by which she works are as applicable to mind as to matter. In man we see both mind and matter combined,—two natures, the intellectual and the physical. But in order to learn what we are and what we should be, we must first understand the relations in which we are placed. In attempting to do this, we must study man as well as Nature, and advance step by step, if we would achieve the highest attainments of which we are capable.

He only is a man in the true sense whose mental, moral, and physical capacities have been fully developed. To be "twenty-one years of age and six feet high" does not of itself constitute a man. He must attain to something more than this,—he must have the head and the heart and the soul of a man. He must appreciate the true character of his position, and have the moral courage to discharge his duties,—in short, he must live for others as well as for himself, act from generous impulses, and in all he does, yield to "the divinity that stirs within him," if he would comprehend the import of his godlike destiny.

The highway to knowledge, though rugged, is equally free and open to all. Whoever will, may enter the temple of Nature, interrogate her face to face, unlock her treasures, appropriate her wealth, and subject her subtle agencies to human service. This the nineteenth century has already done to a considerable extent. Thus far it has been a bold century, and has taken many bold steps. It has "knocked holes through the blind walls" of the last ten centuries, and exposed to daylight the "moles and the bats" of antiquity; and still it demands more light. Such is the spirit of the age,—a demand for naked truth in all its beautiful proportions. Never, until this nineteenth century, have the masses really discovered their mission,—the great fact that they were created to think as well as work, and to govern as well as be governed. And yet the world may be regarded as still in its infancy; nor has the human mind, as compared with its possibilities, emerged from its cradle, or even thrown off its swaddling garments.

Though capable of sublime achievements, man at birth is not only one of the most helpless, but one of the most ignorant, specimens of animal existence. It is said by physiologists that an infant can neither smile nor shed a tear until forty days old. In his infancy the world to him is but a panorama of strange objects. In due time, however, he discovers that he has everything to learn, and needs to learn everything before he can comprehend himself or wield the power which Heaven has assigned him.

The degree of culture required to render man what he should be—godlike in his character—admits of no compromise with ignorance, superstition, or sectarianism, but on the contrary, involves the necessity of establishing and sustaining such an educational system as will be adapted to the needs of the masses, and work in accordance with the laws of matter and of mind.

It is to the masses that our country must look for her best material, and for her future intellectual giants. In every age of the world more or less great men have been produced. At a time when most needed, our own country produced a Washington, a Jefferson, and a Franklin, who distinguished themselves and the age in which they lived,—the age which gave birth to human rights. At a later period appeared a Jackson, a Clay, and a Webster,—the defenders of the Constitution and of the Union,—who have left behind them a brilliant record; but notwithstanding their conservative efforts, there came a spirit of reform, sowing dragon-teeth, which soon sprang to life and filled the land with armed heroes, who bravely met in deadly conflict and decided forever the great question of human freedom; and consequently we now have, instead of a few, a great many men of world-wide renown, who have made for themselves and for their country a proud history.

In order to preserve our liberties we must have men of large hearts and wise heads,—men who can wear the armor of giants because they are giants. In short, we must recognize the great fact that every child in the land has a God-given right to an education,—a right which no parent should be allowed to sell for "a mess of pottage." Our national watchword should be "Education;" and the system should be so constructed as to reach all classes of youth by methods not only efficient but attractive.

It will be said by some, perhaps, that it is quite impossible to educate the masses in the higher branches of learning, unless they be withdrawn from the indispensable labors of the field and the workshop, and thus be compelled to neglect the industrial pursuits on which they must depend for their physical comforts,—bread, raiment, and shelter. However plausible this objection may seem, it certainly does not afford a sufficient reason why the facilities of acquiring a good education should not be equally extended to all classes.

Manual labor and a high degree of intelligence are by no means incompatible, but on the contrary, must be associated, in order to achieve great or brilliant results. It is true, however, that the physical wants of man must first be supplied before you can proceed successfully with the cultivation of his intellectual powers. The fact is every day exemplified that bread is much easier gained by an intelligent than by an ignorant laborer. Whatever faith may do, it is certain that science and labor must be combined if we would either tunnel or "remove mountains;" and though native talent may have been distributed with more liberality to some than to others, all are under the highest obligations to improve such as they have, whether it be one talent or twenty talents.

The farmer, the mechanic, the merchant, and even the busy housewife, have more or less leisure hours,—long winter evenings, holidays, and sabbath days, amounting to nearly half a lifetime,—which might with great profit be employed in the acquisition of useful knowledge through the medium of choice books and interchange of thought. Indeed, almost every one who has received a common-school education may so improve the fragments of time which fall in his way as to acquire in the course of an ordinary lifetime a pretty thorough acquaintance with the sciences, and with general literature.

Though our leisure hours may seem too few to be worth improving, yet it is by saving pennies that we accumulate wealth. Surprising as it may seem, there are within the allotted age of man ten years of sabbaths when taken in the aggregate,—ample time, one would suppose, for perfecting, in a good degree at least, his intellectual and moral culture. If mankind were as orthodox in their actions as they profess to be in their creeds, the moral regeneration of the world would soon be accomplished. One of the most formidable barriers in the way of human advancement is the faith we have derived, not from revelation, but from the blind interpretation of it. A true theology and a sound philosophy can never come in conflict. In this enlightened age, it is absurd to expect that Science will confine her inquiries within the circumference of a circle, or so modify her annunciations of truth as to coincide with the mystical traditions which have been handed down to us from a remote antiquity.

As an encouragement to the friends of popular education, the fact should not be overlooked that the masses have been to a great extent relieved from the necessity of constant toil by the introduction of modern machinery. In fact, genius has conquered time, and given time to the masses. It has broken the fetters that bound them, and thus afforded them leisure for self-culture, social intercourse, and the investigation of truth.

It is the magic power of genius which has given life and brain to machinery, and which compels it to perform the hard work of the factory, of the workshop, of the farm, and of the household. In almost every department of industry, machinery does the hard work. It spins and weaves and knits. It saws and planes and wields the hammer. It reaps and mows and thrashes. It churns and washes and plies the needle. In fact, it does nearly everything else for us, except to breathe, eat, and digest our food. It was the inventive genius of our Northern people—the legitimate outgrowth of our common-school system—that produced, at the moment when wanted, iron-clads, monster cannon, and Greek fire, and in the sequel, saved the Union, and overawed the powers of Europe. It was these warlike inventions which secured us the elements of a lasting peace, and the respect of the civilized world.

It may be truly said that we now live longer in ten years than our ancestors did in twenty, and accomplish twenty times as much. Still it is not possible for any one man to know and do everything. Men of genius are specialties, seldom or never universalities. Hence, a diversity of talent naturally dictates a division of labor. And yet American genius, if not universal, must be acknowledged eminently inventive and practical. The Americans have made, we may venture to assert, more valuable discoveries in the last half century than all the world besides. The reason why this is so may be attributed to the operation of a physical law, in connection with the effect of a liberal system of popular education. The Americans are a mixed race, made up of all nations, and have been improved and elevated as a race by transfusion of blood, which has resulted in producing increased activity of brain, with new modes of thought and new exhibitions of intellectual power.

But notwithstanding this peculiarity of character, there still remains, as it seems to me, one great and glaring error in the prevailing system of American education. This error consists in our neglecting to develop more fully the physical man, through the instrumentalities of systematic labor combined with systematic study. In many of the German States, if not in all, the plan of educating youth is much more sensible and philosophical than in this country. There they combine daily labor with daily study; and the result is that the youth of Germany acquire vigor of body and vigor of mind at the same time. From youth to manhood they are taught to regard labor as honorable, and they feel that it is so. Hence the Germans are characterized as a race by the possession of an iron constitution, and by a mental energy which enables them to meet the stern realities of life not only with fortitude, but with a spirit that never yields to adversity. No country has ever produced a more athletic or a more enduring race than Germany; nor has any country produced finer scholars in every branch of human learning, especially in philosophy and in classical literature.

But in this country it may be difficult, perhaps impracticable, to establish an educational system of this character, to any considerable extent, for the reason that we are for the most part an agricultural people, who do not concentrate in hamlets, like the peasantry of Europe, but prefer to occupy many acres and to distribute ourselves over a vast expanse of territory,—and what is more, have a way of our own in all we do. The truth is, Young America does not like work. He prefers fine clothes and fast horses, and apes the man before he is a man. And yet he assumes to know everything, and to do everything,—except work. These peculiarities in the character of Young America seem to have been generated by the spirit of our free institutions. Whether too much freedom or too little freedom is the greater evil, presents a grave question. Whatever may be the cause, it is evident that we as a people are degenerating into a nation of speculators.

Almost every man nowadays seeks to acquire wealth by some grand speculation,—by some other means than by the honest "sweat of his brow." Even mental acquisitions are often sought as a means of speculation,—as a means of living without work; and hence we see the learned professions crowded to overflowing. Go into the main streets of our cities and villages, and you will see the fronts of nearly all the buildings on either side of the way shingled over with the signs of lawyers and doctors, who in the estimation of the populace lead lives of little work and great dignity. Doubtless a foreigner, with such an exhibition before his eyes, would think us a nation of lawyers and doctors, living on the misfortunes of each other; nor would his conclusion be very wide of the mark.

Nor can it be doubted that there are thousands in the clerical profession who, if they do not subsist on each other, subsist in a "mysterious way" on salaries entirely inadequate to their support. It would seem that the supply of professional men in this country exceeds the demand. For this there may be no remedy. Yet a step in the right direction should be taken by advancing the standard of professional attainments so as to exclude mediocrity and shallow pretence from registration on the "roll of honor." Wide as the world is, it has no room for idlers or pretenders.

This over-supply of professional men not only indicates a false estimate of what really constitutes a true manhood, but clearly proves that in American education and in American public sentiment there are prevalent errors which are inconsistent with the welfare of man and the democratic character of our institutions. These errors can be corrected only through the influence of a well-directed course of popular education; but nothing is more difficult than the correction of popular errors. It is a task the reformer often attempts, but seldom accomplishes. In most cases it must be a work of time, perhaps of ages. In every school there should be a regular system of physical as well as mental exercises established. Health and strength of body are pre-requisites to health and strength of mind.

In most of our colleges and boarding-schools the physical development of the pupil receives but little attention; and consequently he is enfeebled in body if not in mind, and is then sent out into the world to endure its hardships without the physical ability to take care of himself. All this is radically wrong, and calls loudly for reform. An exclusive culture of the mental powers can never produce a strong man or woman. This fact is painfully illustrated in all our large towns and cities. The kind of education, therefore, which attempts to refine our young men and young ladies by giving them an artificial nature too delicate to endure soiled hands will never do. The coarse as well as the fine work of practical life must be done by somebody. Though some may be too proud, none are too good to work, however elevated may be their social position. There is really nothing in our daily routine of duty—in the coarse work of the world—from which an enlightened mind should shrink.

It is to be hoped the time will soon come when all our public schools, colleges, and universities will have their workshops and gardens, affording the necessary facilities for instructing our youth, male and female, in some industrial art or trade, as well as in books, and thus give them a relish for labor, and the physical ability to endure it.

If such a method were adopted, the women of our country would soon become practically fitted to compete with the men in many, if not all, the channels of a business life. If it be true that the women have been deprived of their rights, it is certainly not the fault of the men, but a fault of education,—a radical error which should be remedied. If parents will not apply the remedy in the early education of their daughters, then there is no relief. Let a course of education make it as fashionable for a woman to pursue some industrial art or trade as it is to be a lily that neither "toils nor spins," and you would soon see American women not only capable of taking care of themselves, but more generally solicited than they now are to assume the endearing cares of their appropriate sphere.

The true mission of woman is divine. To her belongs the post of honor,—that of a wife and mother,—a position which she prefers to occupy when yielding to the impulses of her nature. In educating her, therefore, this great fact should be kept in view. There is no knowledge she needs more than a correct knowledge of human character. This she can only acquire by coming in contact with the world as it is, in childhood as well as in womanhood; in the public school as well as in the social circle. The old puritanic idea that the sexes must be schooled separately in order to secure them from exposure to moral dangers, seems to me not only erroneous, but absurd. The public school, when made up of both sexes, is in fact an epitome of the world, where its good and its evil are seen, and where the child should be taught to accept the good and reject the evil under the guidance of correct moral principles. It is in a pure home influence, however, that a primary education should begin. Indeed, mothers must take the initiatory step in giving to youthful impulse the right direction.

"Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined."

But in order to appreciate the full import of their duties and responsibilities, mothers themselves must first be properly educated. Where, then, is this all-important work to be commenced? Where can it be commenced, except in our common schools? It is in the common schools only that the masses can be educated. It is to the common schools only that we can look for the proper education of the future fathers and mothers of the land, and for the correction of popular errors. It is to this class of schools, more than to any other, that we must look for our future patriots and scholars, statesmen and philosophers, and last, not least, for our future school-teachers.

The mission of a school-teacher is truly a mission of divine import. It is the school-teacher who moulds the youthful mind, and converts it into a casket of gems; it is the school-teacher who gives direction to budding thought, and awakens in the soul of youth the slumbering fires of genius,—in short, it is the school-teacher who lays the broad foundations of the Republic, and hews the pillars that sustain our civil and religious institutions. The school-teacher should therefore possess the qualifications of a master-builder, be able to plan his work, and execute it with tact, taste, and judgment. He should not only govern himself, but should be able to govern his pupils without seeming to govern. In a word, he should be a model character, and regard his profession as one of honor, and honor his profession by elevating it to the dignity of a learned profession. He should remember that he is placed in a position which gives him a vast influence,—an influence broad as the ocean of time; an influence which should be pure in its character, and as refreshing to the growth of the inner life as the dews of heaven to the unfolding flowers.

There is no means, perhaps, more efficient in promoting the success of a professional teacher than the instruction to be derived from institutes, or normal schools, in which the art of teaching is made a specialty. This class of schools should be made a part of our school system. At least every Congressional district, if not every county, should have its normal school. It is only in this way that our public schools can be supplied with accomplished teachers, and be made worthy of being called the "people's colleges."

But the truth is, the masses are not as yet more than half awake to their real interests. In the cause of popular education the wonder is that educators have done so much, and legislators so little. The true educator is a philanthropist. He sees and feels that public sentiment needs to be enlightened and liberalized before it will yield its sanction to such a system of public schools as ought to be established.

In perfecting our present system, we need a National Bureau of Education, authorized to act as a central power in directing, if not in controlling, the general educational interests of the entire country. A department of this kind, it is believed, would give efficiency and equality to all public schools, and thus greatly elevate their general character. And with this view Congress should be required by the Constitution, not only to establish, but support in each of the States at least one national college; and these colleges should constitute a national university, in which the crowning studies should be natural science, military science, and the science of government.

It is doubtless true that educators have already become a power in the land. Of this fact they seem to be aware, and the danger is that their influence may be subordinated to the uses of political aspirants. Every educator has a right, of course, to express his own individual opinions; but he certainly has not the right to employ educational instrumentalities to promote the interests of a selfish partisanship, either in State or Church. Whenever it is attempted to sow "tares" of this kind among the wheat, it is to be hoped that an indignant public sentiment will eradicate them with an unsparing hand.

It is always pleasant to recall our early schooldays, with their many delightful and refreshing memories, which still linger about the old school-house where we received our elementary education,—the dear old school-house by the wayside, with its noisy group, its sunny spots, and its hours of fun and frolic, and especially its birchen sceptre, which so often taught us the "doctrine of passive obedience." It is unquestionably true that every school-house, to some extent at least, reflects its character in the character of its pupils. Hence we should not only look to the character of our schools, but should build our school-houses in a neat, if not imposing style; for they, though silent, are eloquent teachers, whose influence should create such impressions as will tend to refine the tastes and elevate the aspirations of the youthful mind.

But no system of education which is contracted, or revolves in a circle, can fully meet the exigencies of the mind, or satisfy the demands of the age. In most American colleges, as well as in the universities of Europe, a definite course of study is prescribed and made a fixed fact,—a kind of Procrustean bed on which every lad is either stretched or abridged to fit; and this is done, as scholastics tell us, for the purpose of disciplining the mind. No two persons were ever created to think, act, or look alike in every respect; nor can an educational system be prescribed by square and compass which will be alike adapted to all minds. In my humble judgment, those studies best discipline the mind which tend most to enlarge and liberalize it, and which are essentially concordant with its native powers and capacities. The course of education, therefore, which will best develop the peculiar genius, talent, or marked preference of the pupil, should be adopted so far as practicable. If a young man, for instance, exhibits a native talent or taste for music, painting, mechanics, law, medicine, theology, agriculture, or commerce, his education should take the direction indicated. If this plan were pursued in all our colleges and other schools of a high order, we should soon see, instead of here and there a star, a galaxy of brilliant men and women in the sky of our national renown, whose excellence in their several specialties would challenge the admiration of mankind.

The truth is, our modern colleges are not modern enough. They look to the ancients for wisdom, instead of seeking it from Nature and the revelations of modern science. In a word, the dead languages are studied too much; the living, too little. Next to mathematics, the natural sciences should take the preference. No man is thoroughly educated who is not thoroughly instructed in these sciences, especially in chemistry and geology. Every farmer should be familiar with agricultural chemistry, and be able to apply its principles. It is the utility, the practical good to be derived from an education, that gives to it value and solidity.

It is practical, not fanciful knowledge, which the masses need. In order to secure their elevation and social equality, every State in the Union should be required to maintain an efficient system of common schools, in which all instruction should be given in the English language, and the schools made accessible to all classes of youth, and be "good enough for the richest, and cheap enough for the poorest." In order to effect this, the system should recognize the theory as an equitable principle, that the property of the State is bound to educate the youth of the State. This principle is certainly a just one, since the man of property, though he have no children, is as much benefited by its application as the man who has children but no property, for the reason that the security of property, as well as the rights of persons and the stability of the Republic, must ever depend on the degree of intelligence possessed by the people.

In fact, each State should be regarded as one great school-district, and all its resident youth as the children of the State, for whose common education every citizen having taxable property is bound to contribute his proportionate share. In this way every child can be educated, and elevated to the social position of a true manhood; and it is only in this way that a work of such magnitude can be accomplished. In every point of view it is much wiser to educate than to punish, much wiser to build school-houses than prisons, much wiser to sustain school libraries than billiard-tables.

It is a matter of congratulation, however, that there is now much more confidence placed in the theory of common schools than in former years. In most of the States prejudice has yielded to enlightened sentiment, and the "people's colleges" have come to be regarded as the most useful and influential institutions in the land. All should be done that can be to render these schools pleasant and attractive. The school-house should be built not only in good taste, but its surroundings should be made as cheerful and inviting as possible by planting about it ornamental trees, shrubs, and flowers. Its interior walls should be enriched with appropriate maps and charts, historical paintings, and portraits of renowned men and women. In addition to this, every school should be supplied with an ample apparatus, embracing specimen weights and measures, mathematical figures in wood, together with globes and a planetarium,—not omitting a cabinet of the leading minerals, metals, and coins. Their uses and characteristics should be explained and illustrated by the teacher in a simple style of language, and in the presence of the entire school, at least once or twice a week.

Familiar exercises of this kind would deeply interest the pupils, and impart to their minds a degree of valuable knowledge which they would not be likely to obtain in any other way, and which might awaken, perhaps, some unconscious genius, who would in after-life so develop his powers as to advance the interests of science, and take his place among her proudest masters. In nearly every instance our truly great men have arisen from an obscure origin.

The time has already arrived, I am inclined to think, when there should be added to the usual course of studies pursued in our colleges, academies, and high schools, a systematic training in military science and discipline, as a means not only of physical culture, but as an easy method of fitting our young men to become practical soldiers and defenders of the Republic. We as a people, in consequence of the late Civil War in which we have been involved, are evidently undergoing a transition, which has already had the effect to change in a good degree our national traits of character. If we would have invincible men, we must, like the ancient Greeks, accustom our sons to hardships and manly exercises, give them muscle as well as mind, teach them to love and defend their country, and if need be, to die for it,—die on the battle-field,—

"Where gory sabres rise and fall

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall!"

The attempt which we are making in our public schools to educate our children in the shortest possible time is a grave error. We ought rather to "make haste slowly," if we would do the work well. A work of this character is one which requires patience and perseverance. There is no short way to knowledge, no patent right that can produce it to order. It can only be obtained by study, persevering study, aided by the patient efforts of competent teachers. It is all-important therefore that we should furnish our children with such elementary books as are best adapted to their capacities and needs, and with such teachers as are qualified to teach them lessons contained not only inside of books but outside of books,—lessons which abound everywhere, both in the natural and in the moral world. We should also furnish them with school libraries composed of standard works, and including the best current literature of the day. A library of this character should be established in every school-district, and be made accessible to every citizen. In this way, and only in this way, can the masses be supplied with the mental food which they so much need, and which is indispensable to their moral and intellectual elevation. No matter what the cost, public libraries always pay a liberal dividend in the shape of mental and moral power, if not in dollars and cents. No matter what dangers may threaten our free institutions, depend upon it, a reading people will take care of themselves.

The ancients built temples for their gods; we build school-houses for our children. This one fact exhibits perhaps more clearly than any other the distinctive character which marks the career of ancient and modern civilization, and indicates the great change which has been wrought in the course of ages by the law of progress. We may justly regard our numerous school-houses and churches as the mirrors not only of moral character, but as the safeguards of the Republic.

In the pursuit of knowledge, it is quite absurd to suppose that all high attainment in art, in literature, and in science, must of necessity be confined to the "learned professions," as they are called by way of pre-eminence. It does not matter what a man professes to know, but the question is, what does he know, compared with what he might know? There should never be such a monopoly allowed to exist as a monopoly of knowledge. The learned professions have nothing in them sacred, no forbidden fruit,—nothing more than what everybody may know who chooses; nor can there be any good reason why every employment in the various departments of human industry—every trade, every mechanic art—should not be regarded as a learned profession, and be made a learned profession, in which brains as well as hands should co-operate in achieving success and in solving new problems.

There is food for thought in every human pursuit. In order to be successful, in order to achieve high aims, the laboring man must not only think, but be capable of thinking profoundly. Indeed, every man may live like a philosopher, and be a philosopher, if he will. But no man can be a true philosopher who is not both a practical worker and a practical thinker. There is nothing the world needs more than workers and thinkers to make it a paradise. The masses are workers, and if educated, would become thinkers. It is only once or twice in a century, it is said, that "God lets loose upon the earth a great thinker." Of the past, this may be true, but not of the present. We have scores of men now living who are greater thinkers than Plato, Newton, or Franklin, because modern science has introduced them into broader fields of thought. The chemists, geologists, inventors, and discoverers of the present day have never been excelled as profound thinkers. Ours is literally an age of philosophers.

Truth, though eternal, is never stationary; nor will the law of progress ever reach a standpoint. There is always something to be done, some vacuum to be filled. It is said by philosophers that Nature abhors a vacuum. I do not doubt it, especially if it be a vacuum in the human head. It is pretty certain that the youthful head, if not filled with sense at the proper time, will soon be filled with nonsense. Neither errors of the head nor errors of the heart can be easily eradicated, when once implanted. The moral nature of the child may be moulded at will; but the cherished opinions of age can seldom, if ever, be either reversed or essentially modified. In the great battle of life our success as individuals must depend on the kind of armor in which we are clad, and the kind of weapons with which we are supplied. For effective service there is nothing which can be brought into the field so formidable or so irresistible as the artillery of logic. Intellect is always sure of becoming the ultimate victor. We read of giants in the chronicles of the early ages,—physical giants, who could overthrow the pillars of the proudest temples, and bear off mountains upon their shoulders; yet of what value to the world were their marvellous exploits, if really true, compared with the achievements of those intellectual giants who have appeared at different epochs, and taught mankind the most useful lessons in the arts, in the sciences, and in philosophy? And here let me say to the young aspirant for worldly honors that if he would achieve high aims, he must not only aim high, but have faith in himself as well as in a Divine Providence. Indeed, every man, however humble, may become great in his vocation, if he will; yet no man can become truly great who is not truly good.

So far as human perfection can be defined, it consists in the purity and sublimity of moral action,—a perfection which may be approached, if not reached, by all who are so disposed. How truly has it been said that we are never too old or too wise to learn! Nor is any man so ignorant but he may teach a philosopher something.

No matter how conservative we may be in our creeds and opinions, the world will continue to move onward; nor can it stand still if it would. The time is at hand when errors in creed, as well as in education, to which we cling, will not only be exposed, but exploded. However hopeless the condition of the masses may seem, they are already demanding more light and only await an opportunity to proclaim their emancipation from mental thraldom.

The statistics relating to the numbers of mankind, and to the frail tenure of human life, convey lessons which ought not to be disregarded in the estimate we make of what man can do to elevate himself. Strange as it may seem, it is a fact pretty well ascertained that the entire population of the globe neither increases nor diminishes, but remains essentially the same. And yet the population of the earth is continually undergoing changes from the operation of local causes, increasing here and diminishing there, as the ages advance. The law involved seems based on the principle of a just compensation for all diminution. In other words, the earth has a limited capacity, and like a cup when filled, can hold no more, yet always remains full.

When we consider the fact that one fourth of mankind die before reaching seven years of age; one half before reaching seventeen years; and that sixty persons die every minute,—we are struck with astonishment, and are naturally led to inquire into the reasons. The causes which abridge life may for the most part be attributed to popular ignorance, or disregard of physical law,—either in ancestor, parent, or child. Nothing can be truer than the fact that the "sins of the fathers are visited upon their children unto the third and fourth generation," and even to indefinite generations. It is indeed a fearful inheritance, when life comes to us tainted with constitutional disease. For this there seems to be no remedy, except in the adoption of such a popular system of education as will diffuse a practical knowledge of the laws of health.

It may be safely asserted that many people, especially in America, where food is abundant and the style of living luxurious, "dig their own graves with their teeth." Americans, as we all know, are disposed to live fast, and of course die prematurely. In short, we are a sanguine, impatient people; have morbid appetites, crave rich viands, seek wealth and office, and care for little else. In our successes we commit excesses. In the pure elixir of life we infuse drops of poison. Yet Nature proffers us the gift of long life, and waits our acceptance with a patient spirit. Though extreme longevity may not be desirable, yet many more than now do, might attain to the dignity of centenarians, if they would but live in obedience to physical law.

In the elements of his physical nature, man is truly "of the earth earthy." Chemists say that a man of ordinary size is composed of forty pounds solid matter and five buckets of water, all of which may be converted into gas. However this may be, man is a delicate piece of mechanism, a combination of divine inventions. For example, his eye is a telescope, which penetrates the mysteries of the stars; his ear is a drum, which repeats every sound in nature; his heart a timepiece, which marks, with measured beat, the fleeting moments of his life; his vocal organs a harp with a thousand strings, which is capable of uttering the divinest music.

And yet man in his moral nature, though created but "a little lower than the angels," is a profound puzzle. He advances many theories, questions even divine truth, yet believes in absurdities. Nor need we marvel at this, perhaps, when we recall the fact that mankind speak more than three thousand different languages, and profess more than one thousand different religions.

Whether regarded as a common brotherhood, or as composed of distinct races, it is evident that the human family have made rapid advancement in the amelioration of their condition during the last century, through the instrumentalities of a world-wide commercial intercourse, and the consequent diffusion of nobler incentives to action. Yet of the one thousand millions that compose the great family of man, more than six hundred millions are still groping their way in the darkness of a moral midnight, awaiting the advent of the school-master and the promulgation of a purer and holier faith. Even in Christian countries, especially in the South-American States, and in many parts of Europe, the masses are almost universally illiterate and superstitious, and have so long been accustomed to oppression that they have become quite indifferent, if not insensible, to their natural rights; nor dare they, if they would, assert their manhood.

In Italy, the land of art and of beauty, the proportion of those who can read is from twenty to thirty in a hundred, while among the inhabitants within a circle of thirty miles around Rome, there is not one in a hundred, it is said, who can read. Not only in these countries, but in more than half the globe, the masses submit to oppression, because it is the policy of their oppressors to hold them, spell-bound, in ignorance. If they are ever elevated to the social and political rank which the God of Nature designed them to occupy, it must be done by the school-master, armed with his text-books and sustained by the efforts of an enlightened Christian philanthropy. For this ultimate object God works, and man should work.

There can be no doubt but natural scenery, as well as climate, exercises a decided influence in the formation of national character. Whether we advert to Palestine, Switzerland, or New England, it is easy to discover that the mountains of these countries have by their silent eloquence inspired the masses of the people, not only with reverence, but with a love of freedom. In the sublimity of the cloud-capped mountains, they seem to recognize a divine presence which has taught them to look skyward, and to feel that they are destined to ascend in the scale of existence; while in low and level countries, especially on the plains of Russia and Asia, the inhabitants take horizontal views of things, and consequently submit to oppression, and never dare, like mountain-bred men, to break their fetters or question the decrees of fate.

The ancient Hebrews, as everybody knows, were not only brave in warfare, but were distinguished above all other nations as a reverential and God-fearing people. Their form of government was essentially theocratic. In the earthquake they recognized the footsteps of God; in the solemn thunder they heard his voice; in the lightning's flash they saw an expression of his anger; in the rainbow they beheld a token of his promise,—in a word, they were a peculiar people, who have, in the record of their experiences, transmitted to mankind a sacred inheritance.

Switzerland is emphatically a land of mountains and of heroes. Almost every hill and vale within her borders has its consecrated spots and its sanctified memories. In the recesses of her mountains the love of freedom ever burns with a pure and a holy flame, because it is a love which was born of the mountains.

In New England it is equally apparent that the silent grandeur of her mountains contributes to inspire her inhabitants with lofty sentiments, and with a love of civil and religious liberty,—a love which can never be subjected to the reign of oppression, nor be misdirected in its action, except by its own enthusiasm.

It often happens that the inhabitants who occupy distinct portions of a common country differ as widely in their sentiments as in their manners and customs. Especially is this true of the United States, where it is easy to distinguish the Eastern, Western, and Southern people from each other. It may be natural causes, or it may be local interests, that have created these differences, and marked the people of each region with those peculiar personal traits which give them character.

The New Englanders are generally characterized as sedate, formal, and puritanical, guessing at everything, yet pretty shrewd at guessing. They possess genius, are prolific in inventions, and scrupulous in matters of faith. In discussing theological questions, they split hairs; in making a bargain, they conclude to split the difference. In all things they are quick to see advantages, and apt to take advantages. In whatever they undertake, they look ahead and go ahead. In every sixpence which falls within their grasp, they recognize an element of power which "leads on to fortune;" and when they have acquired a fortune, they are pretty sure to keep it. And, as Halleck the poet says,—

"They love their land because it is their own,

And scorn to give aught other reason why;

Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,

And think it kindness to his majesty;

A stubborn race, fearing and nattering none.

Such are they nurtured, such they live and die,

All but a few apostates, who are meddling

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling!"

In the Western States, where Nature educates men on a liberal scale by giving them broad rivers, broad lakes, and broad prairies, we find a people characterized by broad and liberal views of things, large-heartedness, frank manners, generous sympathies; a philanthropy which regards all mankind as a brotherhood, and a public sentiment which rebukes intolerance. In truth, Western men despise "little things" and devise "liberal things," and would sooner sacrifice their lives than yield obedience to the mandates of either political or ecclesiastical oppression.

In the Southern States Nature has not as yet effected much in the exercise of her educational influences. In whatever she has attempted in this direction she seems to have been overruled by circumstances,—by the difference in races, and by the prejudices of caste. Though the South has produced intellectual men of a high order, she has contributed comparatively but little either to science or to standard literature. Yet it must be conceded that the South has always been justly distinguished for her hospitality, cordiality, and chivalric spirit.

Whatever human institutions may achieve, it is certain that Nature in the manifest wisdom of her works contributes largely to the education of all classes of men in all countries. In her great school, even the uncivilized man not unfrequently becomes a profound philosopher. The coinage of her mint has the true ring in it and passes current everywhere. Her light is the light of the world, yet the masses are too blind, or rather too ignorant, to see it. Without intending the least disrespect to the one thousand different theologies which distract mankind, it may be asserted that the Book of Nature is in itself a divine revelation, which has been divided by her own hand into chapter and verse, and may be read in the alphabet of the flowers, in the rocks of the hills, and in the stars. In its language it is not only beautiful, but every word is suggestive; in its doctrines it is pure and truthful; in its wide range of thought it treats principally of life, and of the conditions of life, and assures us that the silent process of creation—of eternal change—still goes on, now as ever; and that every particle of matter in the universe is constantly active, achieving something.

In a philosophical sense, there is nothing dead that does not live. Matter combines, dissolves, and re-combines. New forms of life and new conditions of life appear and disappear. The very dust under our feet has lived and breathed, and will live again. Nature waits to be gracious, and is ever ready to reveal her mysteries as fast as man can comprehend them. And though she speaks with a silent lip, she invites all to share her bounties. Her wealth is infinite.

In every star, in every flower, in every blade of grass, in every grain of sand, in everything visible and invisible, there is life, light, and beauty. In everything there is power. We cannot look at a grain of sand, insignificant as it may seem, without seeing in its composition the material which enables us to read the golden record of the heavens. In the falling raindrop, when converted into steam, we recognize the existence of a power which has revolutionized the world. In the kiss of the sunbeam we discover a magical influence which tints the flower, gives color to everything in Nature, and by its impress presents us with an exact and lifelike transcript of ourselves and of our friends. In the lightning's flash we have a language in which we can converse with our friends throughout the civilized world, at any moment we please.

When we consider what has been achieved in the way of scientific discovery during the last half-century, who can tell what may not be achieved in the next century, in the next ten centuries,—when the great mysteries of Nature shall be more fully revealed, and when new sciences, now unknown, shall disclose new principles, new forces, and still subtler agencies?

In her desire to advance human knowledge, Nature invokes interpreters—unborn interpreters—who, though far away in the distance, will yet come, and when they do come, will interpret in accordance with truth the mystical language in which her undiscovered secrets are written, and thus extend the empire of thought until it becomes infinite,—an empire in which man, still rising in the scale of intelligence, will acquire divine powers, and assume the dignity of a perfect manhood.

WOMAN AND HER SPHERE.

WOMAN AND HER SPHERE.

Woman, like a flower, sprang to life in a garden of flowers,—sprang from the side of her lord, and took her place at his side, as a meet companion to share his earth-life, his joys, and his sorrows.

The Greeks believed that the gods collected everything that is beautiful in Nature, out of which they formed the first woman, and having crowned her brow with sunshine, intrusted her with the irresistible power of fascination.

It is certainly not less pleasant than natural to believe that woman was made of a more refined material than man; and it is doubtless true that every sincere worshipper of the beautiful delights to regard the "angel of his dreams" not only as an incarnation of all that is lovable, but as a divine spirituality,—a vision from a brighter and holier sphere.

An old writer remarks that in order to make an entirely beautiful woman, it would be necessary to take the head from Greece, the bust from Austria, the feet from Hindostan, the shoulders from Italy, the walk from Spain, and the complexion from England. At that rate she would be a mosaic in her composition; and the man who married her might well be said to have "taken up a collection."

However mystical may be the origin of woman, it is certain that we should look to the moral beauty of her life, rather than to her personal charms, in estimating the true value of her character. In her nature woman is a loyalist,—loyal to man and loyal to God. In all ages of the world, in all countries and under all circumstances, she has ever been distinguished for her patience, her fortitude, and her forbearance, as well as for those still higher and diviner attributes, her love and her devotion.

Endowed with charms which give her the power of conquest, woman ever delights in making conquests; and though she may sometimes "stoop to conquer," she never fails to elevate the conquered. With the smile of love resting on her brow, she aims to fulfil her mission by scattering flowers along the pathway of life, and inspiring the sterner sex with reverence for her virtues and for the angelhood of her nature.

The true woman exhibits a true womanhood in all she does, in all she says,—in her heart-life and in her world-life. Her love, once bestowed on him who is worthy of it, increases with her years and becomes as enduring as her life,—

"In death, a deathless flame."

Not only in the sincerity of her love, but in all her sympathies, in her quick sense of duty, and in her devotion to all that is good, right, and just, she discloses without being conscious of it the divinity of her character.

It is in sacred history that we find the earliest record of woman's virtues, acquirements, and achievements. It is there that we read of women who were not only distinguished for their exalted piety and exemplary habits of life, but who often excelled even the great men of renown in sagacity of purpose and in the exercise of sceptred power. It is in sacred history that we have the earliest account of the social and domestic relations of the human family, the most prominent of which is the institution of marriage.

The first marriage of which we have any account took place in a garden, without the usual preliminaries and ceremonies which have marked its solemnization in subsequent periods of the world's history; yet we must believe that it was the most august and sublime wedding that ever occurred. The witnesses of the ceremony were none other than the angels of God. Nature presented her choicest flowers, and the birds of Paradise sang the bridal hymn, while earth and sky rejoiced in the consummation of the "first match made in heaven."

It may be presumed, perhaps, that all matches are made in heaven; yet somehow or other, sad mistakes occur when least expected. Even our first parents, though placed in a garden of innocence, encountered a serpent in their pathway. It need not seem very strange, therefore, that "the course of true love never did run smooth." Yet there are but few who would not concur with Tennyson in thinking—

"'Tis better to have loved and lost,

Than never to have loved at all."

In affairs of the heart there is no such thing as accounting for the freaks of fancy, or the choice of dissimilar tastes. Singular as it may be, most people admire contrasts. In other words, like prefers unlike; the tall prefer the short; the beautiful the unbeautiful; and the perverse the reverse. In this way Nature makes up her counterparts with a view to assimilate her materials and bring harmony out of discord. It is from accords and discords that we judge of music and determine its degree of excellence. In wedded life even discords have their uses, since a family jar now and then is often attended with the happiest results, by bringing into timely exercise a higher degree of mutual forbearance, and inspiring the heart with a purer, sincerer, and diviner appreciation of the "silken tie."

There is no topic, perhaps, of deeper interest to a woman than that of wedlock. It is an event, when it does occur, which brightens or blasts forever her fondest hopes and her purest affections. The matrimonial question is therefore the great question of a woman's life. In deciding it, she takes a risk which determines the future of her heart-life. When the motive is stamped with the imperial seal of Heaven, it is certain the heart will recognize it as genuine, and trust in it. The language of love speaks for itself, sometimes in mysteries, sometimes in revelations. It is a telegraphic language which every woman understands, though written in hieroglyphics. Hence the preliminaries to wedlock, usually called courtships, are as various in their methods as the whims of the parties. In many parts of the world these methods are as amusing as they are singular.

In royal families matrimonial alliances are controlled by State policy, and the negotiations conducted through the agencies of ministerial confidants. In some Oriental countries, parents contract their sons and daughters in marriage while yet in their infancy, nor allow the parties an interview until of marriageable age, when the wedding ceremonies are performed, and the happy pair unveiled to behold each other for the first time. At such a moment "a penny for their thoughts" would be cheap enough. The philosophy of this absurd custom seems to be based on the classical idea that "love is blind." This may be true; yet blind though it be, the heart will always have its preference, and contrive some way or other to express it.

In some of the Molucca Islands, when a young man is too bashful to speak his love, he seizes the first opportunity that offers of sitting near the object of his affection, and tying his garments to hers. If she allows him to finish the knot, and neither cuts nor loosens it, she truly gives her consent to the marriage. If she merely loosens it, he is at liberty to try his luck again at a more propitious moment; but if she cuts the knot, there is an end of hope.

In Lapland it is death to marry a girl without the consent of her friends. When a young man proposes marriage, the friends of both parties meet to witness a race between them. The girl is allowed, at starting, the advantage of a third part of the race; if her lover does not overtake her, it is a penal offence for him ever to renew his offers of marriage. If the damsel favors his suit, she may run fast at first, to try his affection; but she will be sure to linger before she comes to the end of the race. In this way all marriages are made in accordance with inclination; and this is the probable reason of so much domestic contentment in that country.

In ancient times marriageable women were the subjects of bargain and sale, and were more generally obtained by purchase than courtship. The prices paid in some instances seem incredible, if not extortionate. Of course, "pearls of great price" were not to be had for the mere asking. Jacob purchased his wife, Rachel, at a cost of fourteen years hard labor.

The Babylonians, who were a practical people, gathered their marriageable daughters once a year from every district of their country, and sold them at auction to bachelors, who purchased them for wives, while the magistrates presided at the sales. The sums of money thus received for the beautiful girls were appropriated as dowries for the benefit of the less beautiful. Of course rich bachelors paid liberal prices for their choice, while poor bachelors, in accepting the less beautiful, generally obtained the best wives, with the addition of a handsome sum of money. In this way all parties were accommodated who aspired to matrimonial felicity.

But in these modern times most of our young men, instead of purchasing their wives, prefer to sell themselves at the highest price the market affords. Fortune-hunting is therefore regarded as legitimate. In the mind of a fast young man wealth has a magical influence, which is sure to invest the possessor, if a marriageable young lady, however unattractive, with irresistible charms. If his preliminary inquiry—Is she rich?—be answered in the affirmative, the siege commences at once. Art is so practised as to conceal art, and create, if possible, a favorable impression. An introduction is sought and obtained. Interview follows interview in quick succession. The declaration is made; the diamond ring presented and graciously accepted; consent obtained, and the happy day set. Rumor reports an eligible match in high life, and the fashionable world is on tiptoe with expectation.

But instead of its being an "affair of the heart," it is really a very different affair,—nothing but a hasty transaction in fancy stocks. And if the officiating clergyman were to employ an appropriate formula of words in celebrating the nuptials, he would address the parties thus:—

"Romeo, wilt thou have this delicate constitution, this bundle of silks and satins, this crock of gold, for thy wedded wife?"—"I will." "Juliet, wilt thou have this false pretence, this profligate in broadcloth, this unpaid tailor's bill, for thy wedded husband?"—"I will."

The happy pair are then pronounced man and wife. And what is the result? A brief career of dissipation, a splendid misery, a reduction to poverty, domestic dissension, separation, and finally a divorce. But how different is the result when an honest man, actuated by pure motives, marries a sincere woman, whose only wealth consists in her love and in her practical good sense!

It is man who degrades woman, not woman who degrades man. Asiatic monarchs have ever regarded woman, not as a companion, but as a toy, a picture, a luxury of the palace; while men of common rank throughout Asia and in many parts of Europe treat her as a slave, a drudge, a "hewer of wood and a drawer of water," and make it her duty to wait, instead of being waited on; to attend, instead of being attended. Out of this sordid idea of woman's destiny has grown in all probability the custom of regarding her as property. Influenced by this idea, there are still some persons to be found among the lower classes, even in our own country, who do not hesitate to sell, buy, or exchange their wives for a material consideration. Some of our American forefathers, in the early settlement of Jamestown, purchased their wives from England, and paid in tobacco, at the rate of one hundred and fifty pounds each, and thought it a fair transaction. Perhaps this is the reason why ladies are so generally disgusted with the use of the "Virginia weed."

But the doctrine that woman was created the inferior of man, though venerable for its antiquity, is not less fallacious than venerable. It is simply an assertion which does not appear to be sustained by historical facts. It is true that woman is called in Scripture the "weaker vessel;" weaker in physical strength she may be, but it does not follow that she is weaker in mind, wit, judgment, shrewdness, tact, or moral power.

The sterner sex need not flatter themselves, therefore, that superiority of muscle necessarily implies superiority of mind. History sufficiently discloses the fact that woman has often proved herself not only a match, but an over-match, for man, in wielding the sceptre, the sword, and the pen, to say nothing of the tongue. Illustrations of this great fact, like coruscations of light, sparkle along the darkened track of the ages, and abound in the living present.

But in looking into the broad expanse of the historical past, we cannot attempt to do more than glance here and there at a particular star, whose undiminished lustre has given it a name and a fame, not only glorious, but immortal. As in all ages there have been representative men, so in all ages there have been representative women, who crowned the age in which they lived with honor, and gave tone to its sentiment and character.

In the career of Semiramis, who lived about two thousand years before the Christian era, we have a crystallization of those subtle attributes of female character, which are not less remarkable for their diversity than extensive in their power and influence. It will be remembered that she was the reputed child of a goddess, a foundling exposed in a desert, fed for a year by doves, discovered by a shepherd, and adopted by him as his own daughter. When grown to womanhood, she married the governor of Nineveh, and assisted him in the siege and conquest of Bactria. The wisdom and tact which she manifested in this enterprise, and especially her personal beauty, attracted the attention of the King of Assyria, who mysteriously relieved her of her husband, obtained her hand in wedlock, resigned to her his crown, and declared her queen and sole empress of Assyria. The aspirations of Semiramis became at once unbounded; and fearing her royal consort might repent the hasty step he had taken, she abruptly extinguished his life, and soon succeeded in distinguishing her own. She levelled mountains, filled up valleys, built aqueducts, commanded armies, conquered neighboring nations, penetrated into Arabia and Ethiopia, amassed vast treasures, founded many cities, and wherever she appeared, spread terror and consternation. Under her auspices and by means of her wealth, Babylon, the capital of her empire, became the most renowned and magnificent city in the world. Her might was invincible; her right she regarded as co-extensive with her power. Her prompt action was the secret of her success.

When she was informed, on one occasion, that Babylon had revolted, she left her toilet half made, put herself at the head of an armed force, and instantly quelled the revolt. She was a woman of strong passions and of strong mind, and, what is now very uncommon, of strong nerves. And yet her peerless beauty and the fascination of her manners appear to have been as irresistible as the sway of her sceptre. The fatality of her personal charms, her inordinate love of power, and the evils which arise from the indulgence of vain aspirations, indicate the lessons which are taught by her career. In the twenty-fifth year of her reign, her life was suddenly terminated by the violent hand of her own son. After death she was transformed, as it was believed, into a dove, under the symbol of which she received divine honors throughout Assyria.

It would seem that literary women were not less known in ancient times than at the present day. Sappho took her place in the galaxy of literary fame six hundred years before Christ. So sublime, and yet so sweet, were her lyric strains that the Greeks pronounced her the tenth Muse. Longinus cites from her writings specimens of the sublime, and extols her genius as unrivalled. Beneficent as talented, she instituted an academy of music for young maidens, wrote nine books of lyric verse, and many other compositions of great merit. But of all her writings, however, only one or two of her odes have survived. Her fate was an unhappy one. She became violently enamoured of a young man of Mitylene, who was so ungallant as not to reciprocate her attachment; and being reduced to a state of hopeless despair, she precipitated herself into the sea from the steep cliff of Leucate, ever since called the "Lover's Leap."

In this connection we ought not to omit the name of Aspasia, who, at a period two centuries later than Sappho, emerged like a star in a darkened sky and charmed the age in which she lived with the fascinations of her rhetoric. She was not less stately and queen-like in her person than accomplished in her manners. It is said of her, that she possessed rhetorical powers which were unequalled by the public orators of her time; she was as learned as eloquent. Plato says she was the instructress of Socrates. She also instructed Pericles in the arts of oratory, and afterwards married him. He was largely indebted to her for his finish of education and elegance of manners, for which he was so much distinguished.

So charming were Aspasia's conversational powers that the Athenians sought every opportunity to introduce their wives into her presence, that they might learn from her the art of employing an elegant diction. On one occasion when the Athenian army had been disheartened, she appeared in the public assembly of the people and pronounced an oration, which so thrilled their breasts as to inspire new hopes, and induce them to rally and redeem their cause.

Among female sovereigns but few have evinced more tact or talent in an emergency than Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra. She was a native of Syria, a descendant of Ptolemy; married Odenatus, a Saracen, and after his death succeeded to the throne, about the year of our Lord 267. She had been highly educated, wrote and spoke many different languages, had studied the beauties of Homer and Plato under the tuition of Longinus, and was not less renowned for her beauty, melody of voice, and elegance of manners, than for her heroic deeds. In the five years of her reign she conducted many warlike expeditions, extended her empire, compelling Cappadocia, Bithynia, and Egypt to recognize her authority, and acknowledge her "Queen of the East,"—a favorite title which she had assumed. Her power had now become so extended as to alarm the Roman government for their own safety, who sent Aurelian with a formidable army to subjugate and reduce her empire to a province. Zenobia, after being defeated in two severe battles, retired with her forces to Palmyra, her capital, fortified it, and resolved never to surrender. Aurelian invested the city with his entire army, and in the course of the siege was severely wounded by an arrow, and being thus disabled, the progress of the siege was so far retarded as to give the citizens of Rome occasion to utter against him bitter invectives, and to question the character of the "arrow" that had pierced him. In other words, they accused him of complicity. In his letter of self-justification to the senate, he says, "The Roman people speak with contempt of the war I am waging against a woman. They are ignorant of the character and the power of Zenobia. It is impossible to enumerate her warlike preparations of stones and arrows, and every species of missile weapons. The walls of the city are strongly guarded, and artificial fires are thrown from her military engines. The fear of punishment has armed her with desperate courage. Still I trust in the gods for a favorable result."

In this letter the stern and proud Roman general frankly admits the might of woman. Feeling humiliated and almost despairing of success, he now attempted to procure a surrender of the city by negotiation, and offered the most liberal advantages to the queen. In her reply she said to him, "It is not by negotiation, but by arms, that the submission you require of me can be obtained." This laconic reply was certainly worthy of a heroine and a queen. Yet after a protracted and desperate defence, and finding that her allies, instead of coming to her relief as they promised, had accepted bribes from the enemy to remain at a distance, she saw that all was lost, and mounting her fleetest dromedary, sought to escape into Persia, but was overtaken on the banks of the Euphrates and captured. When brought into the presence of her conqueror, and asked how she dared resist the power of Rome, she replied, "Because I recognize Aurelian alone as my sovereign."

Zenobia was sent to Rome to grace the triumph of Aurelian. She entered the city on foot, preceded by her own chariot, with which she had designed, in the event of having won the victory, to make her grand entry into Rome as the triumphant "Queen of the East." But the fortunes of war subverted her ambitious scheme, and subjected her to the mortification of gracing a Roman triumph; yet for this indignity she felt that she was somewhat compensated in knowing that her appearance in Rome would create a sensation. In the grand procession she followed her chariot, so laden with jewels and chains of gold as to require the support of a slave to prevent her from fainting beneath the weight.

After enjoying the satisfaction of a triumph, Aurelian treated his beautiful captive with kind consideration, and provided for her a delightful residence on the banks of the Tiber, where she passed the remainder of her days, honored by all as a matron of rare virtue and accomplishments. She lived to educate her daughters, and to see them contract noble alliances. Her descendants were ranked among the first citizens of Rome, and did not become extinct until after the fifth century.

Near the commencement of the fifteenth century there appeared in France a brilliant meteor,—a youthful maiden, whose development of character was as mystical as it was heroic. Joan of Arc was born of obscure parents, in an obscure village on the borders of Lorraine, and was bred in a school of simplicity. She possessed beauty, united with an amiable temper and generous sympathies. In her religious faith she was sincere, even angelic. Her love of country was ardent and irrepressible. Finding her country-men distracted by a bitter partisan feeling, she identified herself with the patriots, and desired to secure the coronation of Prince Charles, as the only means, in her belief, of restoring the authority of the legitimate government. The reigning king had become hopelessly demented, and anarchy prevailed in almost every part of his dominions.

The rival houses of Orleans and Burgundy were contending for the supremacy, and had entered upon a career of murder and massacre, instead of adopting a regular system of warfare. Both parties invoked the aid of the English, who interfered in behalf of Burgundy; but instead of affording relief, their interference only imposed still weightier calamities on the country. At this crisis a prophecy became current among the people, that a virgin would appear and rid France of her enemies. This prophecy reached the ear of Joan of Arc, and inspired her with the belief that she was the chosen one of Heaven to accomplish the work.

In confirmation of this belief, she heard mysterious voices which came to her in her dreams, and which she regarded as divine communications, directing her to enter upon her great mission. On conferring with her parents in relation to the matter, they advised her to abandon her mad scheme, and desired her to marry and remain with them in her native village; but she declined, insisting that the current prediction—"France shall be saved by a virgin"—alluded to her. The English army had already besieged Orleans, and all hope of saving the city seemed lost. Her friends, regarding her as endowed with supernatural powers, provided her with a war-horse and a military costume, and sent her with an escort to the court of Prince Charles, whom she had never seen, but whose cause she had espoused.

He received her with distrust, though he desired her proffered assistance. In order to avoid being charged with having faith in sorcery, he handed her over to a commission of ecclesiastics, to ascertain whether she was inspired of Heaven, or instigated by an evil spirit. Among other tests, the ecclesiastics desired her to perform miracles. She replied, "Bring me to Orleans, and you shall witness a miracle; the siege shall be raised, and Prince Charles shall be crowned king at Rheims." They approved her project, and she received the rank of a military commander.

She then demanded a mysterious sword which she averred had been concealed by a hero of the olden time within the walls of an ancient church. On search being made, the sword was found and delivered to her. In a short time, with this mysterious sword in hand, she appeared at the head of an enthusiastic army, within sight of the besieged city of Orleans. The English army was astonished at the novel apparition. She advanced, and demanded a surrender of the city, but was indignantly refused; yet the citizens of Orleans were elate with joy at the prospect of relief. Joan boldly assaulted the outposts, and carried them. The besieged citizens, who had escaped outside the walls, now rallied under her banner, and swelled the ranks of her army. Fort after fort was captured. The English fought with desperation. Joan, cheering on her brave forces, and calling on them to follow, seized a scaling-ladder, and ascended the enemy's breastworks, when she was pierced with an arrow in the shoulder, and fell into the fosse. Her undaunted followers rescued her, when she, seeing her banner in danger, though faint and bleeding, rushed forward, seized and bore it off in triumph. The English army, amazed at this, and believing her more than human, became panic-stricken, and retreated in confusion. In their flight they lost their commander and many of their bravest men. Thus, in one week after her arrival at Orleans, she compelled the English to abandon the siege. In truth, she had performed a miracle, as her country-men believed, and as she had promised the ecclesiastics she would do. For this brilliant achievement she acquired the title, "Maid of Orleans."

In addition to this, she subsequently fought several severe battles with the English and defeated them. Even the sight of her approaching banner often terrified the enemy into a surrender. In less than three months from the commencement of her career, she saw Prince Charles crowned king at Rheims. In gratitude for her pre-eminent and timely services in his cause, Charles issued his royal edict ennobling her and her family. Not long after this, the opposing faction of King Charles captured the Maid of Orleans, as she was now called, and imprisoned her in a strong fortress. She attempted to escape by leaping the walls, but was secured and transferred to the custody of the English. The University of Paris, at the instance of dominant ecclesiastics, demanded her trial on the charge of sorcery and the assumption of divine powers. The judges, intolerant as the priests, condemned her to be burned at the stake. Her friends were overawed, and failed to interfere in her behalf. The only condition in her sentence was recantation and the acknowledgment of the supremacy of the Church. In view of so terrific a death, she recanted; but hearing the mysterious voices of her former dreams upbraid her, she re-asserted her faith in her divine mission, was again seized at the instance of the priesthood, and the cruel sentence of death at the stake carried into execution.

Never did a sadder fate overtake an innocent, patriotic, and noble-hearted woman. Her only crime was her love for her country, and her contempt for ecclesiastical assumption. Her purity of life was never questioned. It was said of her that she never allowed a profane word to be uttered in her presence. Her religion was a religion of the heart, too exalted for the times in which she lived. So sincere was the belief of the populace in her sanctity that many persons made pilgrimages from every part of the empire to touch her garments, believing that if they could be allowed the privilege, they would be especially blest, both in this life and in the life to come.

There was no woman of the sixteenth century, perhaps, who was more conspicuous or more talented than Elizabeth, Queen of England. Highly educated in the ancient and modern languages, as well as in philosophy, she embraced at an early age the Protestant faith, and in consequence of the religious jealousies of the times, encountered great opposition in her advent to the throne, and while yet in her girlhood, suffered a long imprisonment in the Tower by order of her sister Mary, who was at that time the reigning queen. But events which transpired in 1558 resulted in the elevation of Elizabeth to the throne, at the age of twenty-five. So fearful were the Catholics of her influence in matters of faith that they sent to her a distinguished ecclesiastic, who demanded from her a declaration of her religious creed. To this intrusive demand she, being an adept at rhyming, replied, impromptu,—

"Christ was the Word that spake it;

He took the bread and brake it;

And what that Word did make it,

That I believe and take it."

So frank and faultless was this avowal that it confounded the artful priest, who, feeling rebuked, went away as wise as he came, if not a little wiser.

In her personal appearance Elizabeth was stately and majestic, but by no means remarkable for her beauty, or amiableness of temper. Her good judgment and discrimination enabled her to call to her aid wise men for ministers and counsellors. She patronized talent and intellect. It was during her reign that Spenser, Shakespeare, Raleigh, Bacon, and other eminent characters flourished, giving to her times and to literature the distinction of the "Elizabethan age." The leading events of her reign amply attest her capacity to grapple with emergencies in sustaining her prerogatives and in maintaining the defiant attitude of England. She loved money as well as power, and though penurious, wielded her power with decision, crushed domestic rebellion at a blow, removed her fears of Mary, Queen of Scots, by consigning her to the block, defied the power of Spain, and with the timely assistance of a providential whirlwind, sank the Spanish Armada in the depths of the sea.

Though unattractive, her charms induced sundry propositions of marriage, particularly from the King of Sweden, from the King of Spain, and from a young prince of France, twenty-five years younger than herself. For this young prince, it is said, she entertained a sincere attachment, and went so far as to place publicly on his finger a costly ring, as a pledge of their union, but being taken soon afterwards by some strange whimsicality, dismissed him, and thus gave him leisure to reflect on the vanity of human aspirations. Yet, like most artful women, she delighted in flirtations, and always retained in her retinue a few special favorites, among whom were the Earls of Leicester and of Essex. On these men she bestowed official positions of high rank, and evidently desired to make great men of them; but Leicester proved to be deficient in brains, and Essex turned traitor, and was finally executed.

When advised to marry by her counsellors, she replied that she could not indulge such a thought for a moment, for she had resolved that the inscription on her tombstone should be:

"Here lies a queen who lived and died a virgin."

In her seventieth year she died of grief, it is said, for having signed the death-warrant of Essex, for whom she entertained a sincere yet "untold love."

The events of her reign wrought great changes in the destinies of nations. By her firm adherence to the Protestant faith, she contributed much towards enlarging and strengthening the foundations of civil and religious liberty. She succeeded by her wisdom and diplomacy in circumventing the subtle machinations of rival powers. In few words, it may be said of her that she was a noble specimen of manly womanhood.

Catherine I., Empress of Russia, was born of obscure parents, near the close of the seventeenth century. In girlhood she was known by the name of Martha, until she embraced the Greek religion, when her name was changed to Catherine. Her father died when she was but three years old, and left her to the care of an invalid mother in reduced circumstances. When old enough to be useful, Catherine devoted her services to the care and support of her mother, and in attaining to womanhood, grew to be exceedingly beautiful. Her mother had instructed her in the rudiments of a common education, which she afterwards perfected under the tuition of a neighboring clergyman. Among other accomplishments, Catherine acquired a knowledge of music and dancing, and soon became as attractive for her elegance of manners as she was celebrated for her beauty.

In 1701, she married a Swedish dragoon, and immediately accompanied him to the military post assigned him in the war which had just broken out between Sweden and Russia. In a battle which soon followed, she was taken prisoner by the Russians. Her personal charms soon attracted the attention of Peter the Great. What became of her husband is not known, but may be imagined. At any rate, the emperor succeeded in winning her affections, acknowledged her as his wife, and placed the imperial diadem on her head and the sceptre in her hand. She soon proved herself to be a woman of wonderful tact, shrewdness, and judgment, and obtained an unbounded influence over her husband. In fact, her advice controlled his action; and in following it, he acquired the enviable and lasting title of "Peter the Great." Like her, thousands of women have made their husbands great men, and often out of very indifferent materials.

After Peter's death, Catherine was proclaimed empress and autocrat of all the Russias. Her reign, though short, was brilliant. Her frailties, if she had any, were few, and ought to be attributed to the character of her favorites rather than to herself. She died at the early age of forty-two, after a brief reign of a little less than two years as sole empress. Her native endowments constituted her brightest jewels,—modesty, simplicity, and beauty; it was these angelic gifts which elevated her from the obscurity of rural life to the throne of a great empire.

Here let us turn from the Old World to the New, and look into the parlor, instead of the palace, for specimens of true womanhood. It is in the private walks of life, in the domestic and social circles, that we must look if we would contemplate the character of woman in its purest and proudest development. It is in her daily exhibition of heart, soul, sympathy, generosity, and devotion that woman attains to perfection and crowns herself with a diadem. Everywhere in this great Republic are thousands of women whose excellence of character challenges our admiration. Among those who have passed into the better life, and whose names are recorded on the tablet of every American heart, is Martha Washington.

In her character we have the character of an accomplished American lady. Few, if any, have ever excelled her. When the war of the Revolution commenced, she accompanied her husband, who had just been appointed commander-in-chief of the American armies, to the military lines about Boston, and witnessed the siege and evacuation of that city. She was ever the guardian spirit of the general, and aided him materially in his military career by her wise counsels and timely attentions. While he reasoned logically and deliberately, she came to logical conclusions instantly, without seeming to reason,—a faculty of logic which characterizes almost every woman.

In her figure, Martha was slight; in her manners, easy and graceful; in her temper, mild yet cheerful; in her conversation, calm yet fascinating; in her looks beautiful, especially in her youthful days. So universally admired and respected was she, that everybody spoke of her as "Lady Washington."

She did the honors of the presidential mansion with polished ease, dignity, and grace. Her connubial life with Washington was not less exemplary than it was happy. His regard for her was as profound as her devotion to him was sincere. So solicitous was she for preserving his good name and fame that immediately after his death, she destroyed all the domestic letters which he had addressed to her, for fear they might some day be published, and be found to contain some word or expression of a political nature which might be construed to his prejudice.

Faithful as a wife, as a friend, and as a Christian, she proved herself a model woman. She survived her husband but two years, and died at the age of seventy. In life she occupied a position which queens might envy, and in death bequeathed a memory which will be cherished in a nation's heart, when the proud monuments of kings and queens have crumbled into dust and been forgotten.

If it could be done without making invidious distinctions, it would be no less delightful than instructive to refer specifically to the names and deeds of many other American women who have graced the age in which they lived, and added lustre to the annals of our Republic. But we must content ourselves by alluding to them in general terms; and in doing this, we must admit the fact that the noble deeds and exalted virtues of woman occupy a much less space in the world's history than they ought.

It is sufficiently evident to everybody that women, in all the relations of life, exhibit a keener appreciation of right and wrong than men. Hence they are usually the first to approve what is right, and the last to concur in what is wrong. It was this devotion to principle which induced American women in the days of the Revolution to submit to the severest trials and deprivations, while they encouraged their sons, husbands, and brothers to go forth to the battle-field in defence of their country. In proof of their patriotism, these noble women, with their own hands and with cheerful hearts, spun, wove, knit, and baked for the brave and suffering soldiers, and even made an offering of their jewels on the altar of liberty, and rather than see the enemy enriched by traffic and unjust revenues, complacently approved the policy which cast rich cargoes of their favorite beverage into the depths of the sea.

It was the same spirit, the same patriotism, which inspired the women of our own times on a still broader scale, in the late struggle of the North to crush the rebellion of the South and sustain in all its purity, its honor, and its glory, the dear old flag of the Union. This great work has been done manfully and nobly, and at immense sacrifices of treasure and of blood; but it could not have been done without the aid and encouragement of woman. It was woman who held the key and unlocked the hearts of twenty millions of people, and induced them, by her pleading appeals, to pour out their noble charities, as from floodgates, to supply the urgent needs of the largest and bravest army the world ever beheld. It was woman whose delicate hand nursed the sick, the wounded, and the dying soldier, and whose sympathies and prayers soothed and cheered his departing spirit.

In the sanitary commission, in the Christian commission, woman was the master-spirit, the angel of mercy, the music of whose hovering wings animated the weary march of our gallant volunteers, and inspired their souls with invincible courage. It is woman who weaves the only wreath of honor which a true-hearted hero desires to wear on his brow, and the only one worthy of his highest aspirations. It is an indisputable fact that the power, the patriotism, and the influence of woman constitute the great moral elements of our Republic, and of our civil and religious institutions.

It is the educated and accomplished women of our country who have refined the men as well as the youth of the land, and given tone to public sentiment. It is this class of women who have purified our literature, and moulded it to harmonize with the pure principles of a Christian philosophy. In the fine arts, and even in the abstruse sciences, women have excelled as well as men. In the catalogue of distinguished authors there are to be found, both in this country and in Europe, nearly as many women as men. From the facts which we have already adduced, it is evident enough that woman, in the exercise of intellectual, if not political power, is fully the equal of man; while in tact and shrewdness she is generally his superior. According to the old but truthful saying, it is impossible for a man to outwit a shrewd woman; and instead of asking, What can a woman do? we should ask, What is there a woman cannot do?

Whenever women are left to take care of themselves in the world, as thousands are, they should not only have the right, but it is their duty, to engage in any of the industrial pursuits for which they are fitted. The principal difference between man and woman is physical strength; and for this reason the lighter employments should be assigned to women. In whatever employment men are out of place, women should take their place; especially in retailing fancy goods, in book-keeping, in telegraphing, in type-setting, in school-teaching, and in many other like employments; nor need they be excluded from the learned professions. In fact, we already have lady clergymen and lady physicians; and some think the character of the Bar would be much elevated by the admission of lady lawyers. We cannot doubt that unmarried ladies, if admitted, would excel in prosecuting suits commenced by "attachment," but in other cases their success is not assured, if we may judge from the following incident: A lady lawyer of presidential aspirations, in conducting a suit before the late Judge Cartter in the district court at Washington, was opposed by an eminent lawyer of the other sex, who raised a vexed legal question which had not been "dreamed of in the philosophy" of the lady lawyer, and which so perplexed her that she, in the midst of her embarrassment, appealed to the judge for advice as to the course she had better pursue. The judge, who hesitated somewhat in his utterances, replied, "I think you had bet-bet-better employ a lawyer."

If women choose to compete with men in any of the learned professions, or in any other pursuit, and are fitted to achieve success, there is nothing in the way to prevent them; yet it does not follow that they can take the places of men in everything, especially in those employments which require masculine strength and great physical endurance. Nor does it follow that women who pay taxes should therefore have the right of suffrage. The fact that they hold property does not change their status, nor does it confer political rights.

The right of suffrage is a political right and not a natural right. The exercise of this political right carries with it the law-making power, the duty of protecting persons and property, and consequently of maintaining and defending the government. They who make the government are therefore bound to defend it. Nature never intended that women should become soldiers and face the cannon's mouth in the battle-field; nor did she give them strength to construct railroads, tunnel mountains, build war-ships, or man them. Yet women, prompted by affection or romantic sentiment, have been known to become soldiers in disguise, and perhaps have fought bravely in the battle-field. But this, of itself, proves nothing; it is merely an exception to a general rule, or in other words, an eccentricity of character. In all ages of the world, as we have shown, the mere force of circumstances has occasionally unsphered woman and placed her in unnatural situations, in which she has sometimes achieved a brilliant success,—on the throne and off the throne, in peace and in war, in political life and in social life. Yet in stepping out of her sphere, whatever may be her success, every true woman feels that she "o'ersteps the modesty of nature."

When woman glides into her natural position,—that of a wife,—it is then only that she occupies her appropriate sphere, and exhibits in its most attractive form the loveliness of her character. Marriage is an institution as essential to the stability and harmony of the social system as gravity is to the order and preservation of the planetary system. In the domestic circle the devoted wife becomes the centre of attraction, the "angel of the household." Her world is her home; her altar, the hearthstone. In her daily ministrations she makes herself angelic by making home a heaven, and every one happy who may come within the "charmed circle" of her kind cares and generous sympathies. In fact, there is no place like home, "sweet home," when on its sacred altar burns the blended incense of harmonious souls,—

"Two souls with but a single thought;

Two hearts that beat as one."

It is certain that man and woman were never created to live independent of each other. They are but counterparts, and therefore incomplete until united in wedlock. Hence they who prefer single blessedness are justly chargeable with the "sin of omission," if not the "unpardonable sin." It is difficult to estimate the fearful responsibilities of those fossilized bachelors who persist in sewing on their own buttons and in mending their own stockings. Yet these selfish gentlemen frankly admit that there may have been such a thing as "true love" in the olden times, but now, they say, the idea has become obsolete; and if a bachelor were to ask a young lady to share his lot, she would immediately want to know how large the "lot" is and what is its value. In further justification they quote Socrates, who, being asked whether it were better for a man to marry or live single, replied, "Let him do either and he will repent it." But this is not argument, nor is it always true, even in a sordid marriage, as appears in the following instance: Not long since, in New York, a bachelor of twenty-two married a rich maiden of fifty-five, who died within a month after the nuptials and left him a half-million of dollars. He says he has never "repented" the marriage.

The age in which we live is one of experiment and of novel theories, both in religion and in politics. In modern spiritualism we have entranced women, who give us reports from the dead. In modern crusades we have devout women, who visit tippling-houses and convert them into sanctuaries of prayer. In politics we have mismated and unmated women, who hold conventions, clamor for the ballot, and advocate the doctrine of "natural selection."

It is true that every marriageable woman has a natural right to select, if not elect, a husband; and this she may and ought to do, not by ballot, but by the influence of her charms and her virtues. If all marriageable men and women were but crystallized into happy families, earth would soon become a paradise. Yet if this were done, we doubt not there would still remain some "strong-minded" women, who would get up a convention to reform paradise. The truth is, the women will do pretty much as they please, and the best way is to let them.

Yet all must admit that a woman of refinement is not only a ruling spirit, but "a power behind the throne greater than the power on the throne." Her rights are therefore within her own grasp. Among these she has the right, and to her belongs the responsible duty, of educating her children in first principles, and in those sanctified lessons which have been revealed to man from heaven. It is the mother's precepts which constitute the permanent foundation of the child's future character. Hence no woman is really competent to discharge the responsible duties of a mother as she ought, unless she has first been properly educated. There can be no object more deserving of commiseration, perhaps, than a mother who is surrounded by a family of young children, and yet is so ignorant as to be unable to instruct them in the rudiments of a common-school education and in the fundamental principles of a Christian life. The character of every child, it may be assumed, is essentially formed at seven years of age. The mother of Washington knew this, and felt it, and in the education of her son, taught him at an early age the leading truths of Christianity. She took the Bible for her guide, and taught him to take the Bible for his guide. His subsequent career proves that he adhered to the instructions of his mother. When he came to pay her a visit, at the close of the war, after an absence of seven long years, she received him with the overflowing heart of a mother, as her dutiful son, and thought of him only as a dutiful son, never uttering a word in reference to the honors he had won as a military chieftain.

Soon after this, General Lafayette, wishing to make the acquaintance of the mother of Washington before returning to France, called at her residence in Virginia, and introduced himself. He found her at work in the garden, clad in a homespun dress, and her gray head covered with a plain straw hat. She saluted him kindly, and calmly remarked, "Ah, Marquis, you see an old woman; but come, I can make you welcome in my poor dwelling without the parade of changing my dress." In the course of conversation Lafayette complimented her as the mother of a son who had achieved the independence of his country, and acquired lasting honors for himself. The old lady, without the least manifestation of gratified pride, simply responded, "I am not surprised at what George has done, for he was always a very good boy." What a noble response, in its moral grandeur, was this! Certain it is that such a mother was worthy of such a son. A monument, plain, yet expressive in its design, has been erected at Fredericksburg to her memory. It bears this simple, yet sublime inscription:

"Mary, the Mother of Washington."

The extent of woman's moral power can only be limited by the extent of her capacities. In every circle, whether domestic, social, or political, the accomplished woman is a central power—imperium in imperio; and though she may not directly exercise the right of suffrage, yet her influence and her counsels, even an expression of her wish, enable her to control the political, as well as the social, destinies of men and of nations. It is in this way that she may "have her way." It was the accomplished wife of Mr. Monroe who made him President of the United States. She was the first to propose his name as a candidate. Her influence with members of Congress induced them to concur in advocating his election; he was elected. His administration, as we all know, was distinguished as "the era of good feeling."

The prevalent idea that women need less education than men is a gross error, worthy of heathendom perhaps, but entirely unworthy of Christendom. Let women be as generally and as liberally educated as men, and, my word for it, the question of woman's rights would soon settle itself. The right of women to be thus educated cannot be doubted, because it is a divine right, and because God has made woman the maternal teacher of mankind, and the chief corner-stone of the social fabric. Yet she should be educated with reference to her proper sphere as woman,—a sphere which is higher than that of man in the economy of Nature. Her capacities for industrial pursuits, such as are consistent with her physical abilities, should be developed so that she may be qualified to provide for herself, and to sustain herself in life's battle, if need be, without the aid of a "companion in arms."

Nevertheless, marriage is one of Heaven's irrevocable laws. It is, in fact, the great law of all animal-life, and even of plant-life. Nowhere in Nature is there a single instance in which this law is not obeyed, in due time, except in the case of mankind. Why is this? It certainly would not be so if it were not for some grand defect in our social system,—some false notions acquired by education, which are peculiar to our civilization, and which induce apostasy to truth and natural justice. Man was created to be the protector of woman, and woman to be the helpmeet of man. Each therefore has an appropriate sphere; and the obligations of each are mutual, growing out of their mutual interest and dependence. The sphere of the one is just as important as the sphere of the other. Neither can live, nor ought to live, without the aid, the love, and the sympathy of the other. Whether so disposed or not, neither can commit an infraction of the other's rights, without violating a law of Nature.

Whatever may be the evils of our present social or political system, it is evident that the right of suffrage, if extended to woman, could not afford a remedy, but on the contrary, would tend to weaken, rather than strengthen, mutual interests, by creating unwomanly aspirations and domestic dissensions, thus sundering the ties of love and affection which naturally exist between the sexes. In a word, it would be opening Pandora's box, and letting escape the imps of social and political discord, and finally result in universal misrule, if not in positive anarchy.

Modesty and delicacy are the crowning characteristics of a true woman. She naturally shrinks from the storms of political strife. Give her the right of suffrage,—a boon no sensible woman desires; place her in office, in the halls of legislation, in the Presidential chair; enrobe her with the judicial ermine, or make her the executive officer of a criminal tribunal,—and how could she assume the tender relations of a mother, and at the same time officiate in any of these high places of public trust, in which the sternest and most inflexible duties are often required to be performed?

It is not possible, however, that the erratic comets, whose trailing light occasionally flashes athwart our political sky, will ever acquire sufficient momentum to jostle the "fixed stars" out of place, because there is a fixed law of Nature which preserves them in place. There is also a law of Nature which makes man not only the protector, but the worshipper, of woman,—a worship which is as instinctively paid as reciprocated, and which is by no means inconsistent with the worship of God, but in truth is a part of it. It is this kind of worship—this natural and holy impulse of the heart—which constitutes the basis of man's rights and of woman's rights, and should harmonize all their relations in life.

We see the instinctive exhibition of man's reverence for women almost every day of our lives, and often in a way that proves how ridiculous are modern theories in regard to woman's rights, when brought to the test in practical life. Not long since, in one of our cities where a woman's rights convention was in session, a strong-minded female delegate entered a street railway car, when an old gentleman arose to give her his seat, but at that moment, suspecting her to be a delegate, asked, "Be you one of these women's righters?"—"I am." "You believe a woman should have all the rights of a man?"—"Yes, I do." "Then stand up and enjoy them like a man." And stand up she did,—the old gentleman coolly resuming his seat, to the great amusement of the other passengers.

Whatever maybe the pretensions of agitators, it is certain that no woman of refined culture, or of proper self-respect, will attempt to step outside of her appropriate sphere. This she cannot do if she would, without doing violence to the sensibilities of her nature. When true to herself, woman, like the lily-of-the-valley, prefers the valley, where she can display her native loveliness in comparative retirement, secure from the inclemencies of a frowning sky; while man, born with a more rugged nature, prefers, like the sturdy oak, to climb the hills and the mountains, where he delights to breast the assaults of storm and tempest, and to fling the shadow of his stately form over the valley, as if to protect the ethereal beauty of the lily from the too ardent gaze of the sun. And, though a solitary flower may sometimes be seen climbing the mountain height, it is only the modest lily-of-the-valley—the true woman—whose cheering smile man aspires to share, and whose purity of character calls into exercise his reverent admiration.

"Honored be woman! she beams on the sight,

Graceful and fair as an angel of light;

Scatters around her, wherever she strays,

Hoses of bliss on our thorn-covered ways;

Roses of paradise, sent from above,

To be gathered and twined in a garland of love!"

AIM HIGH.

AIM HIGH.

In addressing you as a graduating class, permit me to suggest for your consideration a few thoughts on the importance of regarding self-culture not only as a duty, but as the only means of elevating and ennobling your aspirations in life.

Though you have completed your academical course with a degree of success which does you credit, you should remember that the great work of education still lies before you, and that the formation of your characters and the shaping of your destinies are committed to your own hands. And here let me assure you that it is little rather than great things which mark the character of a true gentleman. In fact, there is but one way in which a refined education can be acquired, and that is, "little by little."

It is thus from day to day, from year to year, from everybody, and from everything, that you may learn, if you will, something new, something useful; and though you care not to do it, yet you will, in spite of yourselves, learn something, good or evil, just as you may choose to apply it.

You certainly have the power to choose between good and evil,—in other words, to achieve the loftiest aims. Yet in directing your aspirations, you must adapt means to ends; collect your materials and refine them, and in refining them give them the brilliancy of costly jewels,—jewels which you can wear with becoming grace and dignity wherever you may go, and at all times and under all circumstances.